And now a word from our sponsor: Not often will I interject explanatories or excuses into this creative experiment’s space, but here’s one: It’s been a pretty slammed week for me. I had to go into the office last weekend and since then I’ve been pulling mostly 12-plus hour days there. The status of today’s workload at the end of today will determine whether or not I have to spend more time in this weekend. Better management of my time and efforts and less spent kicking myself would have prevented that, but let me not dwell on my inefficiencies and ability to self-flagellate, let me just learn from the experience and move on to better smoother workflows.
In addition to all the stress entailed at my desk, I was contacted by the Times last week to see if I would like to represent the pro-bike side of a five-part online Dust-Up feature debating urban cycling. I’m hesitant to represent anything much less do so over an elongated period and one that was so jacked-up as this one, but being I’m a sucker to get and keep the bike dialogue going out there I said hell yeah. As a result, after I’d gotten to a stopping (or breaking) point with the work I get paid to do I’d come home (or just stay later at the office) and try to focus on this new task of trying to hammer out my sides of the argument. Some days were easier than others, but pretty much with each press of the submit button I crossed my fingers hoping it wasn’t gibberish.
In addition to that commitment, I made this crazy resolution to scribble a bit o’ the fiction onto this blog every day of 2008. To keep to that I was having to get up at 5 a.m. (or earlier), blink the sleep out of my eyes and flow something/anything out of my head. Again some days were easier than others.
Combined all those things have conspired to put me on my bike only once this week, and that’s made me reeeeeeeally grumpy.
So having said all that, the sliver of fiction I’ll be serving up today is short and simple and declarative and barely longer than the title and that’s all folks.
In The Rough
The sun was hot. Almost as hot as the diamonds sequestered in the breast pocket of Trevor’s coat close to his heart, which they certainly were. Near and dear.
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