In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Enough Is Enough.”
There’s a towel in every damned day that goes by when I keep trying until I won’t fail.
But for every day of percieved failure, I succeed in learning something new. When that happens, I get up from my self–imposed retreat on the comfy sofa where I hope to read myself to death or re–awaken with a new appetite for what I think I was cut out to do oh so many years ago.
If not for the giant wet blanket, I would probably not need one towel, much less several gross of spares. Asking someone for advice as to how to deal with it gets an answer something like this: Deal with it; work your way through it; it takes intestinal fortitude… Platitudes!
My secret way of dealing with it is to come apart in big ways when nobody is around to experience this dramatic thing: I get up, stalk the length and width of my writing space, slathering and roaring out creative expeletives. The benefits outweigh the risks in that I breathe heavily, which is something I forget to do while working.
If there is a final towel to throw in, it won’t be done by me. That’s some comfort in itself.