Some days an idea hits me. Ker-BLAAAP!!! I don’t know where it comes from. It just appears, all of a sudden like, in my mind. And before I can hardly get to my keyboard, the words come rushing out, in pretty much the right order, and line up across the page like little soldiers in the battle of prose. The lines turn into paragraphs, and the paragraphs turn into pages.
Some days the words are funny. Some days I’m pretty darned hilarious; I crack myself up (are you supposed to admit that out loud?). Some days the words tug at my heart strings, tear at my soul, and wash down my cheeks onto the page.
(Some days it’s easier to admit conceit than vulnerability even though only one of the two will send you to the hot place.)
Some days the memories come back in a rush of sights, and scents, and sounds. Serifs attach themselves to these sensations, and the warm and fuzzies transform into hard black and white. Syllable after syllable floods from the past into the present. The tone is right. The idea is right. The world is right with me and I with it.
Today is not one of those days.
That’s why I am reminded of three idioms for when you’re just not on your game:
Some days peanuts; some days hulls.
Some days you’re the windshield; some days you’re the bug.
Some days you’re the dog; some days you’re the tree.
Today it’s all hulls, bugs, and trees. Maybe the next time the Muses will sing and smile, the planets will align, and a four-leaf clover will fall from the heavens and smite me with a good idea. Which brings me to another idiom that can be used to describe this post:
You can’t polish a turd.