This feels wrong. I never work on Saturdays, and I have to work two in a row. (I think I'll go lie down.) I keep thinking of how big and juicy my paycheck will be a week from Monday and I can go on.
I'm amazed how much Mom being sick affects my ability to concentrate on my writing. I've barely managed to write to a prompt a few days since last Saturday. There was absolutely no way I could knuckle down and work on my NaNo novel's opening scene this week as we were assigned to do, but I attended class and took the notes. I'm not giving up.
January 30--Jungman Beach, Cheju, South Korea. The long sandy beach stretched out at the foot of the bay. The hills that embraced the water funneled the wind so that it sent grains of sand tumbling along. No one except tourists came to the beach to swim in the chilly Pacific waters. The natives were too used to the sandblasting that any exposed flesh got to come to relax. They came to Jungman to fly. Tucked in sleek black wetsuits and riding brightly colored boards, young men and women rode the wind and waves. They flung themselves up into the air, pulling tricks of heart stopping daring, flying recklessly over the ocean. As daring as they were on the weekend, the young Koreans spent their weekdays in suit and tie locked in a cubicle marking time until the weekend rolled around again and freedom beckoned.
Eh. It's barely better than no writing, but I'll take it.
--Barbara
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