My thoughts exactly

I have let this blog slip a little. Dr. Design and The Muse have been bugging me for the last couple of months. They are used to more publicity. The Muse even complained about me to Lady Gaga. Her response: Meh.

One of the things I have been working on is my social media site and blog. That and preparing for a move and my first cold in probably a decade put me behind the proverbial eight-ball.

But more posts are coming soon!

Much to my complete surprise, I was not awarded a “genius grant” of $500,000 again this year by the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation. So it remains on my bucket list.

They picked a bee breeder, a jellyfish scientist, the guy who wrote “The Wire,” a stone carver, and a violinist, among others. They did not pick the owner of News Design School, an institution that brings the light of newspaper design to downtrodden small daily and weekly journalists.

Since 1970, there have been 828 recipients, and I still am not one of them. I need to find out that group of anonymous nominators and see if they even read newspapers. Even the judges are anonymous. Probably not a newspaper person among ‘em. Sheesh.

I spent much of the weekend grading papers.  That means (a) I spent virtually no time on my own major writing projects, and (b) I was exposed to toxic student writing, which serves to diminish my own writing skills. Those who can string seven or eight words together that actually make sense are disarmingly few.

The muse feels neglected, abused and ignored. She tried whispering sweet somethings and softly stroked my mind, but to no avail. I forged ahead with the grading, headache and all. Now she refuses to talk to me, and she is back on the couch watching C-SPAN re-runs. At least she is not smoking.

Sigh. Back to the papers.

Have I been a journalist for so long that I can’t write fiction? I have a folder full of story ideas, including a brand new one for a terrific novel, and a one-act play crying out for revision and publication. Yet, I hesitate. Fearful of failure, I won’t even try. The Muse can sleep through this one: I need a taskmaster.  She’s still asleep on the couch anyway. Waif-like, she fades to translucent with every exhale. Drool runs down one cheek.

I recoil from fiction to post in blogs, and I send tweets to followers I don’t even know. With articles, I talk to other people. I tell their stories. It’s safer. Easier somehow. How did Hemingway do it?