where the writers are
The Writing Day

I'm out of sorts today, an expression that I like because it seems descriptive.  When I hear others say they're out of sorts, I picture them as disheveled, with uncombed hair, mismatched socks and shirts buttoned wrong. If it's a man that's out of sorts, they're unshaven.  If they're bearded, the out of sorts person's beard appears frazzled as an alarmed cat.  If it's a woman - assuming she doesn't shave her face and doesn't have a beard - I know, so sexist of me - her face wears a different expression than usual.

Yet that's not how I look. I'm dressed in a sweater and jeans.  Everything is tidy and matches. 

Yet I'm out of sorts.  Time and I are out of sync.  I feel tired and listless.  My throat is raw and scratchy.  Maybe it's the weather change and the arrival of a spring snow storm.  It blew in hard last night.  Listening to it, I worried about the black and white visitor and hoped he'd be okay.  I wanted to do more but despaired of the battle with my wife.  She has to clean after me and the cats.  We're apparently very messy.

I couldn't concentrate at work.  Fortunately little required my attention or participation.  Writing, though - whew!  Wrote a new chapter, one that was unplanned.  It was just seven pages, a bridge of thought and action from another character's point of view.  I edited more and then wrote as I walked and wrote as I ate, creating scenes to be remembered and added. 

Funny how the writing effort and writing day rose above me.  Perhaps it's not 'funny' but is indicative of where my passions and energies are situated.  Still, writing like crazy was the day's sole bright spot. 

And now, I'll nap.