Taxes and Death

My house is swallowed by papers; bank statements, receipts, farm settlements, cash tickets. This is the first step in preparing for the annual tax accountants who decide whether or not we have under or over paid Uncle Sam, the moniker we give the government agency known as United States of America and/or its Internal Revenue Service (IRS). Whew, what a sentence!

Coincidentally, as soon as I have a complete mess, I have an idea for a publication and then require its guidelines for submission. I know I printed them off the computer for just such an occasion, but where they are now is anybody’s guess. Since I’m new at this publishing aspect of writing, I feel an absolute neurotic need to follow the rules; i.e., (pretend you are reading this in the voice of the warning reader for new drugs that are advertised on tv), no more than 500 words or 900 characters, pictures necessary but not over 1200 pixels, do not use ‘I’ but ‘you’ when telling the story, include all addresses, all similar locations, no duplicate submissions, nothing that any portion of has ever been published before, submission must be for the correct category, no submissions via snail mail, all must be submitted via web and all must meet every guideline or you will be blacklisted forever; otherwise known as death to the writer.

Which to pursue, taxes or possible death! Yikes!

As always, the decision is made over food and a glass of wine. In this case it’s mixed nuts and a glass of chardonnay. I would have loved to make something more appetizing, but as previously stated, there are papers covering every surface. That includes the counter top and bar.

In the end I decide that no particular mood is required to put the financial statements together, but the inspiration to write is a fickle thing. The muse knocks and we must answer, invite her in for champagne. She needs care and attention or she will find someone else to inspire. So I’m carried away on her mission and I try to forget the pesky guidelines. I’ll worry about that after cohesive thoughts have spun themselves into a story the reader will get lost in. Maybe they will also let the demands of the day fall away and leave table tops strewn with wayward papers.

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