Bleh (Sunday Morning Pages)

Sunday. Sinday. Sin day.
(Sin-Day? What in heaven's name made me think of that?)

Restless today and vaguely... bleh. Went for a pleasant walk this morning--absolutely beautiful autumn day, perfect for strolling--but feel like I didn't get as much out of it as I should have somehow. Would I still be out and about if this were Hyde Park rather than Bronzeville? Possibly. All those evocative, familiar streets and beckoning bookstores and cafes, the lakefront, the parks. I miss the walkabouts of my younger days--so much restless energy. Wish I'd begun writing back then, too. Didn't know then I had it in me, I guess. Nobody knows anything when they're young. Nothing.

I should return Michael's call. He left a message requesting assistance from his "computer expert", meaning of course me, but I am not an expert at all, just a bit more comfortable with modern electronics than he, hopeless Luddite that he is. Mike reminds me of my mother in the way he just assumes I can rescue him whenever he's confronted with something he doesn't understand. It never dawns on either of them that I might be as baffled as they and not exactly eager to demonstrate that.

Why am I so irritable? It's the first of a nice little 3 day vacation (almost forgot I put down Tuesday as a vacation day, though I still have Tuesday night's workshop to attend) but I can't work up much enthusiasm about it. Maybe that's why I'm dragging my feet about calling Mike back. I don't feel like talking, and I don't feel like talking about why I don't feel like talking. Even a non-conversation with Michael, where we begin by acknowledging we need to keep it short, can run on for a solid two hours before someone's phone dies and we finally hang it up.

The writing is going... (pause)... okay. It could be better. I want it to be better. I want to write every day something good, something wonderful, not this doodling crap where I can go for pages not really saying anything. What forces combine to create a Baldwin? a (Toni) Morrison? a Dickens? an Oates? Why can't I be as prolific as any of them?

Because they're special that's why. Gifted. Touched by the Divine. I am neither special, nor gifted (though I might be touched). I am just okay. And only that when I work at it.

Okay. Pity party is over. Time to get back to working at it.