Reaching Daily Objectives

This morning I awoke to the gentle call of the wind as, once again, lacy white doilies of fluff wafted gracefully to the earth below. It always fascinates me how rapidly those minuscule entities--such insignificant objects in and of themselves--collect, together forming a force of nature so great as to paralyze entire cities, stop millions of determined individuals dead in their tracks. It is, I suppose, another reminder that although one act, one person alone might, likewise, appear insignificant, when joined, as a force, to others can easily become a power with which to be reckoned.

That, ironically enough, is how I would categorize my day: a wealth of small obligations and tasks which amounted piled up quite swiftly. That is not to say that any of them were "done". More accurately, the vast majority were touched upon with dubious results before I found myself sleeping through the day.

Around me, the disarray of my apartment and work area sat in silent testimonial of my recent convalescence. The question of accepting a new editing project glared up at me in comparable condemnation. My two daughters each faced their challenges in maintaining positive spirits and motivation at this pre-break stage of classes. Not far away, my son dealt with computer problems at Dartmouth, where the "buzz" of the day was the new president, Dr. Jim Yong Kim. I discovered another "flash" writing competition, which I promptly decided I was in no condition to enter today, even though my thousand-word objective loomed before me like a mammoth snow drift demanding to be shoveled. In the end, however, it quickly became apparent to me that being "fever-less" did not make one any less exhausted; accordingly, these endeavors--plus countless others--were grudgingly placed to the side for another day.
One question, nevertheless, refused to be ignored?
Why is that male writers share the same three maddening traits? There work seems to always include the terms "bulbous" and "globules." An eyeball must be gorily gouged from the sockets in an bluntly defined mass of oozing liquid matter. Dismemberment is a must: usually leaving a major character minus a limb or witness to a smooth, one-stroke decapitation. And, finally, there must be the inevitable crunching of bone and sinew. I believe that even in a cookbook or travel manual, somehow one must endure the ocular delights of crunching bone and sinew.

Above all else, it was this single, baffling dilemma which sent me back to the warm and security of my covers. E-mails could wait. The debris within the apartment would still be there come the morning. In a spate of inspiration, two-thousand words can be written as effortlessly as one. Even the minor crises of motherhood were easily soothed with a band-aid or two of advice and encouragement.

But cracking the Mystery of the Bulbous Globules proved absolutely insurmountable!