I’ve spent much of the weekend blaming my lack of desire to write anything (here, answering long-postponed emails, etc.) on being completely sapped of words. I pounded out around 50 pages of — if not exactly publishable — definitely carefully-written academicspeak last week, and I gave myself this weekend to recuperate. The gyms are closed for convocation, the car’s acting funny so I didn’t want to drive anywhere, and the weather hasn’t been outstanding, so I thought I’d stay home and relax.

What I forgot is that I go from Maximum Cerebral Output to bored in, like, 5 seconds. I don’t know what this “relax” is supposed to consist of, but after cleaning the apartment, finishing a blanket, watching the remaining four episodes of Manor House (quality!) while getting my knit on, and arranging my strenuous reading program for the rest of the semester, I actually can’t wait to start the ol’ book-a-day. I feel like I’m embarking upon some obscure turn-of-the-century program for Self-Improvement of Mind, Spirit, and Sensibility through Great Literature and the Appreciation of Written Arts. Now I understand what Pete meant when he told me four years ago that I’m really very Type A.

But this word thing should really not be worrying me, should it? Snopes.com authorizes the story that Dr. Seuss wrote Green Eggs and Ham on a dare from his editor to write a book using less than 50 different words. Perhaps I should take that up sometime. Or break out some wicked haiku stylee. Yes. There’s nothing like self-imposed discipline to make me wander far off task.

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