Day One

It's Day One.

I woke up late and flipped on the TV. Though it was creeping toward the noon hour, my favorite morning news reporter was still reporting live from a standoff in Edwardsville. There are plenty worse ways to start things off.

I flipped from the news to the telethon to the infomercial informing me of the latest breakthrough in exercise-related weight loss techniques. I flipped past Barney and Friends, through Montel and Maury, and landed on tennis.

The marquee matchup was not due to begin for another hour. Instead, there was an unseeded American taking on a guy who may or may not have been French. The possibly-French guy was getting his ass handed to him, even though the announcers had mentioned that he had loads of talent.

His body language was poor. His shoulders drooped. Every time he would hit a bad shot, he would spin through a Rolodex of reactions and choose one of his liking: drop the racket; yell; throw the racket; give a look of exasperation to no one in particular.

The American finished off his opponent with relative ease. During the post-match interview the American answered that he was thrilled to have advanced so far, especially having played so well against the allegedly-French player. This was a player, he said, that was more physically talented than anyone on Tour.


**


I flipped off the TV. I finished reading a story about a brutal, troubled, revolting French guy from the 1400s. The guy had all the resources he could ever want at his disposal, yet he still couldn't find what he thought would fulfill him. His actions devolved into the basest and most horrifying acts. He ended up being burned at the stake.

I got up from the couch and sat on the floor next to the movie that I rented last night. I still hadn't watched it and contemplated watching it now. My contemplation ended in my remembering that today was supposed to be the first day of my 90 Days of Writing project. I sprawled out on my stomach, feeling languorous. My inner dialog started up:

"What am I going to write about?"

"You have numerous sources of inspiration from which to choose."

"Yeah, but I don't know which one I should start with."

"It doesn't really matter so long as you just get started."

"But what format should I go with? A poem? Fiction? Some anecdotes with an interlocking meaning?"

"It doesn't make a difference so long as you utilize the talent you've been given."


So I sat up and turned on the computer.

I decided not to drop my racket. I don't want to be allegedly-French.