I can't recall the last time I actually rested on Labor Day. For most people, it is probably better renamed Laboring Day. So, after an early rise, I worked out in the garage (hard work, this fat burning), completed a few odd jobs around the house, and then set to work writing. I started on a funeral message, shifted to some poems, then to some essays, and back to the funeral message throughout the afternoon.
The cogs must turn.
I also wrote some letters and emails to various editors I know, and submitted a few other pieces online in the hope that, tomorrow morning, I'll be the first one they recognize out of the chute.
All of this writing, coupled with my daughter driving back to Ball State, and my wife leaving late in the afternoon for her evening class (no break on Labor Day for her!) didn't leave much time for slow-restful activity.
However, tonight is different. A fire. A glass. Some late night conversation under the stars. Gives me something to write about.
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