On Independence Day, I drove down to my childhood home to mow the weeds and so my mom could water the lawn. My niece went along and I asked her if she wanted to check a little stream down the road for tadpoles ("pollywogs," we called them when I was a kid). She did, so we drove over and looked around. Didn't see a one, whereas the last time we'd been by there, my nephews caught at least a dozen.
What we did see, however, were these little green leopard frogs hanging out on the bank, which would jump and hide in the moss when they'd see us. As you may know, I become an eight year old whenever I see frogs (I often criticize Big Anklevich for devouring a Family-Sized bag of M&Ms at one sitting or eating every donut in the box, but I have my revolting, unhealthy obsessions too, don’t I?), so of course we spent fifteen minutes trying to catch them (they weren't very fast, but were extraordinarily slippery, and quite a challenge to grab).
We got two, stuck 'em in a container, and brought them home, where my niece and I made a lid for their enclosure out of mosquito netting and Legos. That may sound stupid, but it was a fun activity for my niece and me, and it seemed to work pretty well. They haven't jumped away yet.
Then we had a family barbecue (I cooked the meat), gorged ourselves, and I believe I fell asleep. There were fireworks, and then my cousin invited me to go over to his place, despite me being tired. I drove over around ten pm, impressed by dozens of fireworks displays as I drove. At his house, we've begun watching that show "Legends of Tomorrow," and I've gotta say, there hasn't been an episode yet where I haven't mentioned, "Just have Sara kill them and this will all be solved."
Despite all this, I don't think I got any writing done. I got home, and forced myself to type a few before I went to bed. So, an anemic day/week, as far as word count goes.
Words Written: 114
Total Words: 854
So, on the fifth I went to the library for the first time in, I dunno, fifty days. I know that's where I get the most work done (besides the family cabin, where there's no internet, television, or even cellphone service), so I ought to go there more often, but it's hard to make myself do it. I've even driven to the library, pulled in to the parking lot, then said, "Nahh, I think I'll go throw dirt-clods at red-headed children" instead. That's on me.
Last Saturday, I went over, meaning to start the new month out right, but the bastards close early on Saturdays. Who does that?* That's on them.
Well, on the fifth, I finally manned up (or womanned up, if that's tougher) and went up to the Quiet Floor (where you just ignore the cellphones, despite all the signs that say to silence them). I had intended to stay only an hour, but ended up being there nearly two.
While not technically writing according to my July definition, I was typing up my novella "A Mark on the Sky" from my notebook. I've now gotten it about two-thirds of the way typed, and when it's done . . . jeez, I dunno. It'll probably sit on my hard drive, impotent and mute, while my beard gets whiter and whiter. We'll see if I can break my usual cycle on that one. As Aerosmith once told me, "Girl, you got to change your crazy ways. You hear me?"
Despite the time spent in the library, I can't count that as writing, except what little writing I did do. I'll do better next time. Seriously, dude-looks-like-a-lady.
Words Written: 159 (which is crazy, but that's what it said)
Rish Outfield, Writer (so far)
*It may be that all libraries do that. But I don't have to like it.