I went to a K-8 elementary school surrounded by orange groves. My mother would trot down to the parent-teacher conference with hope in her heart. I wasn’t a bad kid and didn’t get in trouble. That said, I also was not a scholar.
For years my mother’s hopes were dashed once again by hearing, “George isn’t working up to his potential.” It all started with those 1950s IQ tests. I remember looking at three gears in mesh and having to tell which way the third gear would turn. Simple, so I scored high. George was “smart,” which begged the question, why didn’t George do better work?
Many of my writer friends are prolific. A woman I know on Twitter has a series of 80 books mapped out in her head. I am not prolific, and that makes me feel like a slacker. To immunize myself from Slackeritus, I have developed a “Sorry Excuses” notebook. When I think I am not “working up to my potential,” I can salve my conscience by flipping through this trove of sorry excuses to find an appropriate reason for not getting more writing done.
Today, I am proud to announce that I have a new excuse—COVID Brain. Ruth and I were given COVID, probably by some hapless non-vaxxer who didn’t stay home because she “just had a little cold.” Like non-vaxxer’s dogs, Ruth and I have had all our shots. Our cases are mild, but I have felt pretty wimpy for about five days. Now my head feels fuzzy and seems to be larger than usual. I have COVID Brain.
The only downside to this marvelous and authentic Sorry Excuse is that it might not work three years down the road. Today, however, my slacker tendencies are in safe harbor. I’m feeling pretty good about my poky writing style. Maybe I’ll work on my editing later, but right now “I’m just too tired to think straight.” Meanwhile, some of my writing friends probably think, “George isn’t working up to his potential.”
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