Although “throes” might be too strong of a word since I’ve only produced two (#17, and #61b) in the last ten days. But the point is effort is being made. In my screwed up little world that is often all that really matters.
Anyhow, as I was cruising through the fog and the rain this morning to dog-sit the very best blonde Lab in the history of the world (no bias here, of course), I realized that it would be a heck of a lot easier to write a list of rejects… Tools for the Literary Trash Heap, as it were. For instance, my Dog-Sitting Anxiety.
Yes, I did say Dog-Sitting Anxiety.
The sheer stupidity of this phenomenon has made it the first life-experience to reach this soon to be infamous list.
There is nothing to learn from worrying yourself sick and sleepless over having to go feed a perfectly healthy and happy puppy you’ve loved and dog-sat for 9 years.
There is nothing literarily pertinent to glean from complete nut-hood.
Perhaps the only thing such psychiatric silliness can teach a writer is the importance of rejecting/scrapping/tossing-out-into-the-burn-pile those life experiences that stink for no other reason than to stink.
In short: you can’t learn from everything.