If you follow Jane Espenson on Twitter, you’ll know that she invites people to participate in ‘Writing sprints’, aka writing, or doing any creative-ish task, for an hour without distractions. I may have done one once, years ago? I honestly can’t remember. Writing (outside of HOT* TWITTER TAKES) has not been part of my life lately. But today, after literally months of the world descending further into madness, I decided to participate in one of Ms. Espenson’s sprints.**
This post is part of that process. The rest of it was lists of things to do, and pondering whether I really should run a marathon in the spring, and wondering why it costs so much money to get an ADHD assessment as an adult in a country with socialised medicine — I will talk to my doctor about this. *adds ‘Make a doctor’s appointment’ to the to-do list for this week*
Of course, because I am me, and almost gave up after the half-hour mark, but forced myself to write something, anything, this kind of genius is the least navel-gazey part of the whole thing: Failed Limericks.
Queen of Filth
There once was a wee cat named Bea,
Who loved outside, so she would flee.
The dirt pile’s her fave,
So she’s easy to save,
Because she heads right there first to slee…p.
There once was a great cat named Mac,
Who sometimes would sleep on his back,
But oft he would tumble,
Then dazed, he would stumble,
Then feign he wasn’t totally whack.
There once was a wee girl named Charlotte,
Oh crap, that name sure rhymes with ‘harlot’.
For fuck’s sake, she’s four,
This poem’s so poor,
That I’m now forced to drop the rhyme and meter entirely.
The other night, I was very tired (what else is new?), read the words ‘new arrival’ on a storefront, and ended up with a Mr. Belvedere theme song earworm. Then, for the rest of my ride home, my brain got obsessed with why the hell a butler to nobility ended up in suburban Pittsburgh. So, as you do, I started imagining the horrific scandal that led to his exile from England (and the Commonwealth generally). Not so much the scandal, but how far whatever scandal reached. Like, did Her Maj need to be informed? Were there George Smiley levels of clandestine cleverness to cover it up? Was moving to 1980s Pittsburgh/living with Bob Uecker, the worst punishment that a committee of snooty British senior public servants trying to conceal a high-level bit of impropriety could come up with for him? Maybe he should have just been killed? We may never know.
Tomorrow, I run my first half-marathon in nearly two years. I did train more thoroughly than I have previously, but I’ve been feeling low all week (and woke up today with a raspy throat and wicked headache), and the last few runs have been disappointing. And then? I got an email about an hour ago that said ‘Oh hey guyz it’s gon be danged hot and maybe if it’s super bad, we’ll cancel?’
Ottawa had a ridiculously, like, Norwegian summer this year. Aside from the flooding from the raining-nearly-every-day thing, I loved it. Anything above 22C is a fucking waste of time and energy. I do poorly in heat. So, tomorrow’s race is going to be ROUGH. And something about my body shape (hellooooooo 40) is making my fuel belt even more diggy-inny and floating rib-knocking than ever. The email said that tomorrow is not the day to try for PR. That was never going to happen, anyway.
Oh Christ, my phone holder/armband thing hasn’t been washed in weeks and is probably a bacteria fortress. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had just walked right out of the house. *adds ‘Exorcism’ to today’s to-do list *
So, hello, based on this bit of nonsense, I am going to be doing writing sprints from now on. Maybe just once a week. Perhaps my hosting fees will not be wasted from now on because I’ll actually be publishing something once in a while.
I will also revive Today I Learned at some point, though it won’t be daily. At least not yet.