In noticing countries confused with cities and cities confused with America, I knew it was time to step in and help Evelyn with geography. My hand followed suit with a pencil as my eyes traced the outer edge of the world’s largest land masses on our globe. Evelyn cut them out, and together we arranged Asia, Africa, North America, South America, Antarctica, Europe, and Australia—the seven continents, from largest to smallest.
I’ll draw little pictures of penguins and giraffes and moose, maybe mountains and ice. I’ll add fun and wonder to the papers in ways I wish I’d had growing up.
“Memorize the countries,” came the command of an unmemorable teacher. Surprise, surprise—have-tos fizzle, while curiosity, when it’s sparked, is like a forever-tasty cupcake in front of a toddler’s goo-goo eyes.
I should mist my new terrarium I recently bought from Home Depot. But my spray bottle is half full of Dream On fragrance oil and water, so I gave in to the lazy dump-H2O-and-go. In retrospect, I wish I’d taken the extra few minutes to rinse it out.
I hate writing. I hate myself. I hate the resistance I feel—the yanking-on-my-collar feeling, like I’m suffocating my own creativity. I’m blocking myself. Which sounds ridiculous, but is it? Why would I block myself? Especially when it feels so awful and uninspiring? Maybe it’s not that at all. Maybe I’m just in a doo-doo mood, feeling less than, wanting to throw all the to-dos out the window and instead curl up with slippers, a book, and a house whose thermostat is set to at least 71. Currently, it’s 68.
I suppose that’s why there’s this little thing called editing. It’s in the second go that I can bring a piece to life—to add flair and nuance and zest. Or not.
I chose not. Because the raw is real, and the real is where I prefer to inhabit. And, not to worry, the temperature is now a balmy 71 degrees!
Take care. Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 