Stubbed: A Writer's Plight

I’d like to start by saying “Ouch!” The rest of the four letter expletives I will leave to your own imaginations. (By all means, be colorful. I certainly was.)

If I come out the other side of writing the Six Brothers with a single toe not in a cast, splint or a body bag I will indeed count myself lucky.

Yesterday, I once again stubbed the heck out of my literary big toe. Put pen to paper and fell flat on my face.

“Splat!” went Chloe on the carpet.

It was quite ugly. (My dog got a lot of enjoyment out of it however.)

Uglier still was the next five hours in which I wiggled around on the floor, coughing up the occasional sentence until my word count reached 103.

Yes, 103.

Instead of snapping my stupid literary big toe off and ramming said appendage down the garbage disposal, I hobbled out to that dark little corner in my yard and planted me some mondo grass. (See “Tackling That Corner” post a few days ago for details. This really does make good sense, trust me.)

Four little clumps of dark green grass I nestled tenderly into the earth. (This, of course, was after I hacked the weeds to death and yanked their spiny little corpses out of the ground… I enjoyed this part most of all. I can’t imagine why.)

After hosing my mulchy self down and limping back to the couch, I somehow managed to eke out another 450 words on the Six Brothers.

So, in short, my 558 word accomplishment was not only painful, it was dirty and itchy.

And you still want to be a writer?

*considers, then winces*

Yeah, ok, so do I. Now, shut up and leave me to my stupid big toe.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe