Now it's Tuesday

Somehow 90 degrees in September feels more bearable than 90 degrees in August.  The sun not hitting any one place for as long.  The house not quite stifling.  Some time early in the morning, the metallic smell of ozone, wet pavement, blows in through the window.  By the time the sun rises, barely a trace of rain is left on the rooftops.  Thin clouds cover the sky.  The sounds of engines idling and tires on asphalt fill the air.  Things being dropped and crashing on the ground drown out the few birds that sing.  Construction begins again for the day.

Doing generates something, physically working through the ideas as opposed to thinking about them.  Getting into your body, past the original point of departure.  Even actual writing counts.  Things don't need to be perfect, it works itself out in the doing.  And the only way to get there is to start.  Shutting up the critic that says, "not good enough, yet," no longer having someone else to over-shout that voice, I'll have to be my own coach.  My night off.  I write.  And put off all the other things for now.  Not using the guilt over them as an excuse to do nothing at all.