I should have joined the circus. The workday is over. I spent most of it staring at the wall, and then in a last ditched effort at productivity, I put washi tape on an otherwise dull folder.
This successful writer—with—loads—of—hashtag—2021—goals accomplishment left me with the idea that things would be better if I’d joined the circus.
The mind, my mind, continues to be a mystery.
Is joining the circus even a thing anymore? And what makes me think I have the hutzpah (thank you, Aunt Hannah) to be a circus performer? If I can’t even edit two measly chapters, if renewing Jack’s license is monumental, how in the hell am I going to swallow fire or grow a beard?
Joining the circus is often that throwaway phrase for running away or making a screeching right turn into the unknown. Still, I wonder if this kind of flippery (I’m making up words now) is annoying for real circus professionals. And more importantly, when they have a shit day, do they say, “Ugh, I should have joined the bar association,” or “I should have gone to dental school?”
These are the interesting and less than helpful questions I ask Jack as I blow out my office candle, turn off the Edit this Crap Already playlist, and head inside for the night.
I can’t walk a tightrope, and I am not double-jointed. Writing is the only thing I know how to do. So, while today’s washi tape project was technically a win and I can pawn off my staring at the wall bit as “brainstorming,” none of this is going to fix my work in progress.
Maybe I’ll start small tomorrow, like say a paragraph or glitter tights and a hula hoop.
It’s all about the choices.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Canopy bed.