Like the neighborhood bunny that occasionally crosses the street outside my house, an idea for a bit of writing inserted itself in my mind yesterday and then insisted on being actualized. It was a little strange since the latest approach to writing is one of withdrawal rather than engagement.
Anyway, I wrote it up and submitted it to The Guardian, all in a couple of hours. It's just a bit of opinionated fluff, but finding the impetus to actually do it and then send it out was kind of fun. The prospects of publication strike me as small, but I liked submitting something to a publication I like.
The words seemed to pop onto the page without hindrance. So it used to be with writing stuff, but lately there's a sense that sweat and contrivance are necessary and sweat and contrivance are more energetic than I want to be.
Anyway, I got a computer-generated response that said there was a flood of submissions and I should not hold my breath. And that was fine: I felt no compunction to hold my breath in the first place. The old "one and done" encouragement had been replaced with a cousin, "fun and done."
A piece that found a hook in latter-day politics: "Lie to me with a British accent."