Sundays

I was reading a story by Don DeLillo, and the characters were talking about how Sundays are depressing, their memories of Sundays on Earth, at least.
And it reminded me of the endless string of Sundays of my youth:
such a stale, forced-pleasantness to the day--
too quiet, too rigidly ordered..
Not now. 
Now the only depressing thing about Sundays is how roaringly fast they go by,
thrusting us forward into another work week, 
which turns into Thursdaysofast 
and that's my Friday, so it's alright again...

Well, well, well...

You never can tell...
Or something.

So, here I sit, procrastinating homework.
I don't have a lot, but I also have a choppy, busy day ahead, so I better focus.
I will focus better if I empty my brain of its chatter first.
Right?
Right.

Ah, there's the rubbity-rub of it, eh?
The things that are nibbling around, chewing on the edges of my concentration
are
mundane
worrisome
private
so I don't really want to blog them.
But I miss...
this.

I'm in a Fiction Writing class, and we workshop each other's work, and this week one of the stories is utterly captivating and I am sooooo excited for this girl! Yay!! I hope she writes books, and some publisher is smart enough to buy them and push them and then I feel like, aw, crap, there goes one more person in front of me in line for the 5% acceptance rate of the Iowa Writer's Workshop. Heh. But, ya know...good for her. Truly. I would rather read what she's written than write, if that tells you anything. I am actually awed by her talent and can't wait to write her "response letter" and tell her so! Ah, but apparently I can wait...cuz I'm here...doing this..........

That's ok. I needed a brain break. Now time for a shower-and-meet-a-friend-for-chai-tea break. Then more homework. Sure.

The post below is something I wrote for one of the short writing exercises we did for that class.