Portrait of the Artist as a Slug

The amount of work I got done yesterday was astonishing.

Astonishingly minuscule.

I blame the weather and the chardonnay I had the night before. Normally, when I’m home, I’m out the door to get to the gym by 6 a.m., but on Monday I slept until 7:30 and by the time I got up it was drizzling and cold and since the coffee was hot, why would I want to go out in that mess?

So I didn’t get to the gym until 2:30, but at least I went. In the intervening time between getting up and getting out, I finished reading a book (Leaving Atlanta by Tayari Jones, which was a stunning as I expected it to be, though perhaps not the best choice of reading material given the news events of recent days), worked a little bit on a story I’m writing for next semester and an essay that’s due by the 1st, and—ta da!—got a contract in the mail for a story, which I signed and got ready to return. As Mondays go, it might have been sluggish, but it was a good one.

Today, though, I’m hoping to be somewhat more productive. Hey, at least I can cross “write blog post” off the list, right?