Does Satan care about my word count?
I had a whole evening "open" for writing yesterday, and what should happen?
One, I come home from lunch to find a stray dog curled up on my front porch. She was wet, shivering and not happy about either. I had to go in through the back door because I feared she'd bite me. I called animal control, which put me in a black mood for the rest of the afternoon.
I also called my post office. I didn't want my postman walking into a potential startle-and-bite situation. I like my postman.
Then I rescued a bat I'd seen the day before in the parking garage. It was obviously not OK. My head tells me I should leave such things alone. That the life and death of one little bat have nothing whatsoever to do with me.
I can't agree with that.
In the same way Big Brother believes he is Justice to those criminals who cross his path, I believe I am Mercy to those animals who cross mine. I cannot just leave them alone and get on with my life.
After driving through pouring rain (for the second night in a row), I gave the bat to the county wildlife rescue. I hope he makes it. I only know I won't pass his frozen body in the parking garage stairwell and berate myself for doing nothing. That is all the hope I can take with me.
But my night of writing was shot to the heated netherworld. Perhaps some write better when their heart breaks and their eyes swell and their head stuffs up with mucus. I don't.
I wrote a bit, but it wasn't anything like it could have been.
Tonight is blown in the writing sense for a school function.
November passes and my word count fails to blossom. I'm not giving up, but this has not been the best week, and Wednesday has barely started.