New Day, New Plan -- Shootin' for a Realistic Rubric

Best laid plans (insert rest of cliché here) and all that crap. I knew when I started this little experiment that I'd never keep up with a post a day promise, but I had to try. Promissory notes to self are inevitably my downfall. I need to establish some good habits (i.e., get some work done) by finding my rhythm.

Back in the thirties, a very smart woman wrote a book about training yourself to become a prolific writer -- not necessarily a good writer, but a consistent producer of words. Her methods were quite simple. Develop good habits through practice. First, get up each morning and before breakfast, or even that first cup of coffee, sit down and write.

This was the artery unclogging and cobweb clearing -- the stretching that makes you more flexible. She said it didn't matter what you wrote. You just needed to start that engine, get it warmed up and crank out some text. Like an athlete limbering up before a run through the park each morning, you were supposed to sit down to that typewriter or pen and paper and make something happen -- establish that flow of symbols and concepts from your brain to the paper. It didn't matter to her what the subject or how many words comprised the output. Just do it.

That was her first exercise, free flowing stream-of-consciousness writing for however long you wanted to continue it. I tried it and at first, the word count was sparse. I wanted my coffee. It got better when I decided to modify the rules and put the pot on first.

Since this was not for anyone else's perusal, it was pretty easy to relax and not let the internal critic keep up with my fingers on the keys. I found myself writing occasional bits that felt real good. Some I crafted into pieces for a weekly column in a country newspaper. Others became themes to develop later and a couple made it into magazines. I though I was ready to get on with the serious writing thing.

That was just the first exercise. The author's second daily task was a bit more demanding. She admonished us to set aside a time period -- an hour or two -- and a time of day which would become inviolate. Nothing was to interfere with that time period. It was to be for serious writing, writing to a purpose other than exercising the brain and fingers. 

I soon realized that I was not inclined to write seriously every day. It was more my nature to write seriously only on deadline days. So, I never did master the serious set-aside time for writing, and I still prefer to wait until the last possible moment. I guess that's my favorite exercise.

Can I learn some new habits? I guess I will find out. There is a way overdue book I need to write and it needs some sort of kick in the pants to get it going.

I think I need to sleep on it now, maybe ride my bike when it gets light out and return a couple of audio books to the Buda Library.

Keep the rubber side down, as one of my cycling friends is wont to say.

Movin' on Midnight

Here we are at post numero dos and we've only got a few minutes before the deadline (11:32 pm here in Texas). There'll be no long ponderings or fancy editing. This one will more closely resemble those last-minute fillers we are frequently composing right on the page for Southwest Cycling News.

Of course it is always more exciting to push the envelope, to crowd the deadline, pulling an all nighter to finish the newspaper. It happens every issue and I predict it will carry over to this blog as well.

We weren't expecting anything profound and there's plenty more to do tonight before we get to lower those eyelids and doze off to Leonard Cohen as we know him.

No bicycles were ridden on this Tuesday. No brush was cut, no limbs trimmed and no dead wood fed into the chipper either. One looping trip in the Element covered two post offices, the clinic for some lab work and the grocery store. Productive carbon footprint, but a footprint nonetheless.

Mañana.

Blog Post Numero Uno: Old dogs, new tricks ...

... and all the verbiage that goes with such clichés. 

My wife has a blog. My daughter has a blog. Even my granddaughter has a blog. So, why not the old man, too? I feel a bit like I've been dragged kicking and half-heartedly mumbling into the 21st Century where nobody reads, but everybody writes -- about themselves. Ah, sweet narcissistic blogdom.

Not only am I here, fully registered, passworded and walked through the amenities by patient Nancy, but I have made some insane promise to self that I will write something here each and every day.

Already that sounds a bit much, so there may be days when I don't get past the date and time stamp. Possibly on some of those occasions I will resurrect a piece of prose from my past, a piece that has languished in multiple copies and endless versions on hard drive after hard drive, just waiting for me to craft that sow's ear into something of merit. Maybe that's what I'll do, on occasion.

For this first post, I should clarify the line that gives this location its name. It's an old Navy bit, actually. When encountering anyone talking the ear off of an audience that is obviously getting a bit restless and in need of a rescue, you should walk up to that captive audience and ask them if this person is telling sea stories again. Regardless of their answer, you should then ask them if they know the difference between a fairy tale and a sea story. Whereupon, you tell them.

Fairy tales always start, "once upon a time ..." and sea stories always start, "Now this is no shit ..."

Over the course of any future musings here, I will attempt to consult a thesaurus in search of less Anglo-Saxon lead ins to my sea stories.

When in doubt, ride your bike. Or, at least write about it.