Write Away: Don’t Be Lazy

I’m writing this one with great irony tonight, because I’m feeling very lazy. I’m also in a bad mood, which lends resentment into the mix of hasty writing. Plus, I don’t feel good and I can’t sleep.

Yes, I drank caffeine.

Lazy writing versus hasty writing–VERSUS being so much of a control freak that nothing gets written because perfection is impossible.

And imperfection feels worse than being dizzy and nauseated at the same time. (Which I am right now.)

That’s my spin (bad word when feeling dizzy) on Write Away tonight. Which isn’t a thing, only a category–but it sounds good to me when I write it, like it’s a thing.

Set aside the fact that I’m free writing and it actually feels really good. I wonder if I can sleep after I publish this.

I feel like screaming tonight. I would love to walk outside, no RUN outside in my neighborhood and scream—“I’m a lazy writer, woopity freakin doo.” And then do some random howling. Then run back inside before the coyotes respond.

Here’s something funny. I’m so lazy that spell check had to remind me how to spell neighborhood.

Mr. Rogers would not like to be my neighbor.

But, aside from who is or isn’t my neighbor, is my obsession with not being a lazy writer.

I’m good at being lazy when it comes to dishes and cleaning ceiling fans –hint, just turn them on really fast once a week and it seems to work.

I DON’T want to be a lazy writer. So I obsess before I publish, then I just stop writing.

Or maybe I just am a lazy writer–a lazy, bum of a non-writer.

In conclusion–yes, I used it–I’m not a lazy writer or person. I have great respect for editing. And spell check. And I really love finding great writing in myself and others that has been edited.

Or raw. Sometimes raw just feels so good. Just as good as being lazy.




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Not Today


My thoughts are gnawing lately.

My fingers smell like fresh basil.

I keep stopping to inhale its organic trace.

I go nowhere. Just sitting, staring, and sniffing.


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Approaching the world as a question.


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Moon Chatter

Last night, the moon soaked through my bedroom shutters, shedding urgency into my lull and requesting my audience. I had nothing else planned, so I moved into its silken message. It clothed me with illumination and walked with me, telling me a story with no words.

I understood.

I closed my eyes.

No sun. No moon. Just light, shrouding a quiet truth.

No day. No night. Only whispers of existence.

I opened my eyes; a shadow of a zooming star reminded me.

I returned to bed and slept.



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On The Fence (figurative vs literal)


Foxy doesn’t care.

While he is literally on the fence, he’d actually prefer to be on the roof.

But me–I’m on the figurative fence all day, everyday.

I like it there.

(The metaphorical roof is too high for me.)



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Our existence.

Their existence.

Alone is never lonely with reflection.



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Remember When: Homework Was For Real


I didn’t lie to my mother often, but I tried on Halloween.



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