It is 9:05 pm and I am in the same boat as last night. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. A blank mind. Tired. Not interested. Whoever said that writing was fun in the first place? Who was that dumb cluck? Surely not ever me, a person who now sits and stares at a blank page and feels zero reasons to fill it with anything, much less letters that form words that make sentences that combine into stories. Nope. I’m just a person who wants to lounge in the sun, letting its warm rays saturate my Vitamin D-thirsty skin. A person who wants to lie under a tree and watch the bees buzz around the orange blossoms. A person who might favor a nap in the afternoon rather than any purposeful activity that might lead to something bigger, better, or more. How about this being good enough? Fine? Exactly right? Who came up with the need to write things down anyway? Maybe just living life is good enough. Why is there a need for a constant push for better rather than good? Who came up with that good, better, best concept in the first place? Sounds like a crackpot to me if ever I heard of one. Except I recall C. S, Lewis writing about that idea and I did find it compelling, maybe even edifying and helpful. But that was then and this is now and right now I think that’s all a bunch of bunk. But I will say that I’m pleased to get these words on the page since that is my nightly goal and despite (or in spite) of my rather cranky, crabby, recalcitrant (a word my mother loved to use) self, I am doing just that. And in spite of my better judgment, I have actually noticed that writing this down was rather liberating and even somewhat fun. But don’t tell old C.S. Lewis because I don’t want to judge if it’s good, better, or best but rather just good enough. And that whole thing he was writing about – if I recall correctly, which is highly doubtful since it’s just my memory not google I’m depending on here – is that he was talking about behavior not writing. Maybe about love but now I am completely uncertain what the reference was to his point, but I do know it was not about writing. That is good enough for this evening and perhaps this is enough of my effect to get something on the page. Good, bad, or worse. At least black squiggly lines that form letters are on the page and that’s all I agreed to do, after all. And so, for better or worse, in sickness or health, I will now head forthwith to the soft covers of my bed and dive into them. Good night, to any who have been brave enough to read to the end. I appreciate your fortitude in the face of my faltering. But, hey, words are on the page and twenty minutes have elapsed. Like I said, let’s go for good enough and celebrate completion. On that note, I bid you adieu.