Friday, November 30, 2012

Rock Breaking

Anybody will tell you writing is hard, especially writers will tell you that. They would tell you that and so much more than you want to know about their childhood, and broken dreams and this one time there was a cloud that was I swear to God was the spitting image of George Eliot.

So I've decided to elude the difficulty and call writing something else, I'm going to call it... oh hell, I don't know... I can't find the right word (this being the chief bitch with writing).

I'm going to call it rock breaking. There is something muscular and sweaty and neck-kerchief-y about rock breaking that the effete word "writing" doesn't capture. When I tell my kids I was writing all day they look at me like, And....what's for dinner?

But if I said to them I broke rocks with a pickaxe down in a mineshaft they'd be impressed and might offer me a cool drink of water from a ladle, like in olden days. Poor ol' Ma, they'd say. I reckon' we let her off the hook for makin' dinner. She broke rocks again today.

1 comment:

  1. Great way to describe it. And when those rocks are smashed to smithereens, woo hoo!

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