Up at six this morning. It is so dark now at six. I have gotten away from the clock now. Well, not totally. But the clock doesn’t rule my sleeping-waking time anymore. My studio lights are on dimmers, and I keep them low when I enter it so that they don’t block the dawn from softly creeping into the room.
The good thing about early rising is the daily routine doesn’t interfere with my morning contemplations. The bad thing is that the daily routine hasn’t happened. Odd. I recall a writer by the name of Frank Waters who complained that the very thing writers need is denied them by the craft. Socializing. Writers tend to be loners, yet we need human experience to write.
I have heard artists and writers say, somewhat self-righteously, that they did not write or draw for others. A little of that might be true, I have written stuff just for me, but for the most part, I crave your attention and so do they.
I seek out bright baubles and other tidbits to captivate you. If I am successful, I am rewarded by your interest. If I have not piqued your interest and held it, I have failed as a writer.
Even in these morning missives, chronicling my rather tedious and staid lifestyle, I look for the glitter. However, Las Vegas proves that glitter only temporarily distracts. There has to be nourishment as well, and a feeling of fullness for glitter to work its magic.
Perhaps that fullness is my worst failing. If I have one skill in this craft, it is the ability to write a great opening, and quite often, I can get my reader to read the two to five hundred words of my morning drivel if I make that first paragraph bright and sparkling.
But I want to fill you as well, to sate you. My favorite author of all time was Erma Bombeck, who took the inanity of life, skewed it to her own delightful perspective, dangled it before your eyes, and owned you for 250 pages. She is the only person I know who could tell you that the grass is greener over the septic tank, and leave you begging for more.
A very few of these morning missives have actually achieved her level of perfection, but alas, I cannot rest on those few laurels. You are a fickle bunch as well. If I write ten stinkers in a row, you are gone. And you know I am being generous when I say ten.
Now the dawn is breaking from pitch black to a cool bluish gray. The coffee is brewed, and it is time to raise the blinds and watch the wage slaves rumble down the road to town, and ponder this curious gift of a short life that God has given us.