Grease of Elbow

The ass is greener.

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In my posting on June 16, entitled “Am I a Jazz?”, I wrote,

“I also worked for many young years as a laborer, shoveling blacktop and swinging a carpenter’s hammer. Those brutal years of sweat and splinters went a long way toward convincing me that I was cut out for a life in the arts.”

In apparent reference to this statement, R. H. Snow of Texas asks,

“As a person who is currently watching my grow-your-own-laborers program create a chicken house, I too am always motivated to write more when hard labor rears its necessary head. So my question is, what is the task most likely to drive you into the arms of "Sorry, but I have to arts" excuse? Taking out trash? Weeding? Laundry? Washing Dishes?”

Thank you kindly, R.S., for your question. I’m a day late here because the news has been rather crippling, in terms of productive creativity. You have helped me climb back into the saddle and now let us sally forth toward good work once again.

Love,