Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Up Early

My trusty South of the Border mug.
I couldn't sleep. There's work to be done.

And I'm thinking.

As Crash Davis once said in Bull Durham: "Don't think; it can only hurt the ball club."

As my friend Harold once said after watching me hit balls in a batting cage: "You're thinking too much when you go to the plate."

So yeah. Thinking.

If only it were that easy. Just "don't think about it."

Don't think about any of it.

This is where I type several different sentences and stop.

Then delete.

Too vague. Too direct. Too dark.

Too open. Too private.

Too honest (yes, that appears to be a crime).


Say one thing. Don't say another. Wait. Don't say the first thing!

Did I say what I wanted (or need) to say? Probably not. But I can't.

Heck, maybe I've already confused or concerned the reader.

So I stop writing.

Up since 4:30. The Sentinel needs stories.

There are guests to book. A full day ahead.

I'm babbling.

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