Washington, D.C. was beautiful on Saturday. Serenely gorgeous. The wind kept the trees in constant motion, the heat took a hiatus for the shockingly cool temperatures of 67 degrees, and the world stood in awe as breakfast was, for once, quickly obtained at Mancini’s. It was blissful in light of the previous week’s “joyful” legal maneuvering that at its worst involved my feet being shoved into the standard issued, pointy black toed shoes and yours truly living on cupfuls of tea to spur left brain analysis. (See picture.)
Of course, this Hallelujah-chorus-worthy-weather meant I wanted to spend Saturday working on the next book. I mean, the weather was straight out of a James Fennimore Cooper novel, and while I am not a fan of the 19th century American authors, it seemed a sign. A sign to go forth. Lift thy fingertips. And to use them henceforth to type. Now.
And I wanted to write. I really did. Instead, I read. Or tried to. Somehow in a matter of 8 hours, I managed to groan and moan through Graham Greene’s The Man Within, have a meaningful discussion about the personal affects of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road and the “horror” of his poems, inadequately snub D.H. Lawrence’s The Plumed Serpent, skimmed the introduction to Ranier Maria Rilke’s Letters on Life and revisit the witty insightfulness that is Sarah Vowell.
In other words, I procrastinated.
In hindsight, this is not a diversionary tactic I would advise for a struggling writer. Why? Reading someone’s writing that is smarter, better articulated, and more meaningful than your own is an excellent way to promote additional diversionary tactics. What can one possibly write after reading such sincerely, moving brilliance as Rilke when he penned:
Do not believe that the person who is trying to offer you solace lives his life effortlessly among the simple and quiet words that might occasionally comfort you. His life is filled with much hardship and sadness, and it remains far behind yours. But if it were otherwise, he could never have found these words.
It’s like Britney Spears v. Bob Dylan in song writing. Who wants to see that massacre? My quote would look more like “do not believe that I am even trying to offer you solace. Please. I am trying to keep my own life together. And if by some miracle my verbose and complex words comfort you, it’s only because they made you realize that there is someone more lost, inarticulate than you who is writing, dear heavens, to the masses.”
In other words, I didn’t get a lousy thing written on Saturday.
Fall is so here.
