Summertime and the living is

Not so easy.

I'm a freelance writer. In this economy you'd think I'd be sitting on a street corner with a tin cup. Add to that the trend to reduce communication to 140-character squeaks and us writers should be joining the dinosaurs, happily fossilizing in some tar pit. (Can you knit in a tar pit?)

All this busy-ness has caused me to think back to the summer when I was 14-going-on-15, that summer before high school before I could legally work (remember the days when you wanted a job for extra money?), the summer I decided my boyfriend at the time would not transition to sophomore year and there was nothing to do but practice my flute and languish in the basement drinking icy cold glasses of Big Red and watching a very young David Letterman.

I was bored in that way only teenagers caught between childhood and responsibility can be bored. I had hours to ponder what I would wear the first day of school, hours to read historical novels and lay by the pool and imagine what the next three years would be like. And, of course, I hated it.

I still don't "do" bored well. But a lack of pressure allows people like myself with creative pretensions to stare at the ceiling so that ideas can crash into each other like breakers on a beach. That mix of time and tide gives rise to new life, those things that slither out of the alluvial soup to grow into fresh creative forms. Which brings me back to the dinosaurs, again.

Clearly I need a vacation. Anyone else out there stuck in the tar pits?

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