A Slouching To Bear The Writer Ruby

Hushed Days — You Know What They Say About The Writer And The Weekends

Sundays And Saturdays — A Laze For The Brand New Medium

©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms

Whoever this strawman is, ‘they’ always eagerly raise a boisterous attitude, please do inform me of their whereabouts I think they’re well overdue for a hefty payout. You thought Happy Birthday had its eager litigation team on patrol, oh, lad, yer ain’t seen a real shingle yet!

But to do with my ironic, late nature, I’m assuring myself this will be released on the universe’s fib known as Monday.

Anyhow, on the Weekends, the puddings come home and roast with one another; one day of the Satur-variety they’re evicting their liver, on the morrow of the Sun-variety they’re rueing for their aggressive disrespects — by toasting that gin with their Sally-gee the previous night, or rather two ante meridiem, they’ve made themselves the heirs of the pudding brains.

No good! Oh, no good to the writer, why it is better to while away your time on such days with knitting or embroidery that will embarrass up a haunting storm, true and well!

Certainly not true, any writer worth their salt knows the majority of their time will be spent in solitary and in hushed pockets of silence. And thank goodness for that, because true work is and can only be done in such conditions. Have you ever trained a Mime circus in Red-square? — Mhmm, too much noise and distractions!

Oh, the respective Writer, of any given day, can whine, and believe me, they’re the sort to do so — corrupting the zeal and strength of their language sometimes.

Some do, at least, I am not one particularly pensioned to whinge for no reason; I’ll yell up a true and good storm, akin to a Scottish revolt if need be, but just take heed, and don’t waste your voice on things that matter so little. Aesop grins deeply down on us evermore!

If we are to regard anyone, it is your reader; or rather, Readers — I stay to write to one-person audiences only, as you can only grasp the beauty of humanity through the eyes of the individual. Uncle Reilly sure knows how to ruin good things going. And few expect a piece about writing nowadays to delve into some fringing philosophy, but then you’re reading a piece by the Doctor, of wee spirits of me!

But let me extract you away from the concerns of your writing task, and consider this body of readership, or this laze for the brand new medium.

Many, unfortunately, must be said are dying for the weekend, in no gay metaphorical light, passing through the week in hopes of a pleasurable, ridding excess at the end of it. Who’s to blame for such conditions can’t be explored here.

That said, would it be surprising to state that oftentimes the simplest answer could be the conclusion we are contriving things for? — why sometimes on the Weekends, when things feel like a deep, rich chocolate pudding is simply because your Readership has gone out for most of the day. And not on some poor algorithm that gets harangued for so many grievances.

It is only as good as the humane minds behind it that programmed it into existence, same to the humans who congress it in their daily acts of living — they vary, shape, and morph from day to day. Sometimes, trouble occurs, true trouble that is. So consider the sudden disengagement, as it might not just be the computing powers to be blamed.

Sure! — Whilst your best of your readers get themselves Willie-wacht! Time, however, remains the constraint of such an economy here —

Of course, you lot, go about your days with reckless disregard to accords, and you come back asking why your belly is a little punchy this day, whilst the brain remains the color of an Apricot.

In all my satire, against humanity, I mean my sincerity for you to never waste that goodful thing within your bosom. That is rough, I can be rough to amend it, to reveal it by a sudden jolt, sometimes known as humor, or as I know it, the truth being said too quickly.

A lot of this is in response to the current fashions of this seemingly ridiculous notion of Upgrading one’s mind, or game, as they say. And all that. What? — how has their grasp of language fled them so far, to restraint their ideas?;

Just like that, on the easing bill of things, you expect to suddenly upgrade that complex, spongy pink thing, just above your eyes, without setting the groundwork, by good and hard toil, that takes time?

And without considering their wherefores, boredom, daily contrition, and surroundings?

Simplify, but heed the asking risk of doing so. Seek a temperance, as sometimes that is all that can be done.

Ta-ta now.

Ever yours; The Doctor [Adams]

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ON THE WRITER; A SERIES:

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As ever — we go, Dear Reader.