“Click, clack, clickity clack, the thoughts go down the rolling track.
Clack, clack, clickity clack, the thoughts to down the rolling track.
Clack, clack, clickity clack, the thoughts go down the rolling track.”
Fiction and I have not been seeing eye to eye of late. Actually, I’ve had a bit of a struggle to keep myself writing at all. It’s like exercise. I know I need to do it every day in order to stay healthy and in even the most remote shape, but like exercise…
Well, I am fat, you know.
So, how do I motivate myself to keep on doing those mental pushups?
I’m not sure. I’ve never been good at self motivation.
Fortunately, for me, I don’t have to be.
You see, I’ve spent the last year living with my parents. I love my parents. I enjoy living with them, and the fact that they spoil the crap out of my golden retriever means she loves them, too. I often feel blessed that I get to have conversations with them on a daily basis and generally share my thoughts and feelings with them while they’re here. I benefit from their insights and wisdom. I am strengthened by their presence. The only down side, of course, is being a 28 year old man that lives with his parents.
There was one unseen side effect of sharing a house with them, though.
My Dad nags me.
I don’t mean that he’s always telling me to clean my room or mow the lawn.
He asks me what I’ve written each day, often several times over the course of an evening. Especially if I’d rather be watching TV in the living room, or moping about things beyond my control on the internet. Actually, I think his finely honed Dad Senses have retained their edge quite nicely after 4 kids. He seems to know exactly when I’m slacking off and when I’m working. He only ever bugs me about writing when I’m staring off into space or sadistically torturing my mouse by clicking reload over and over again. (I am aware that F5 does the same thing. My keyboard is sacred. Click the spinning circles.)
I guess what I’m saying is, I’ll just keep click, clack, clickity clacking, maybe someday soon, I’ll be able to shout, “EUREKA! I WROTE SOMETHING BRILLIANT!”
It might be the theory of relativity.
It might be a prophesy about short-pants.
But, I’ll have written it because my dad asked me how many words I’ve written today.