As I do practically every day, I was whining to someone today about how lazy, unmotivated, and procrastinatey I have been feeling in regards to my writing. Since the beginning of the year (and if I’m going to Honest, probably a good bit further back than that), I’ve been slacking, big time.
Part of it is that I’m afraid to jump back into the Novel. The one that I love. The one that needs some MAJOR pacing work. The one that essentially needs me to attack it with garden shears and elmer’s glue until it resembles something readable.
Last night I had an engagement that didn’t get me home until about 10, but after that, I felt motivated. Maybe not motivated to face the Novel, but motivated to surf writing blogs, anyway. I wandered over to the divinely inspiring Paperback Writer and sifted through some of her sub ops postings. I found five calls for short fiction that I was ready to answer. If I can’t jump into the big project, I should at least be able to jump into a shorty fun project, yes? They’re all still up in another window, actually, still waiting for me to pick up the damn phone.
I hate excuses. Mostly because I have a ridiculously productive sister that manages to hold down a more-than-full-time stressful job, run a home chock full of dogs, cats, and wives, write up to 3 novels simultaneously, and knit a fair isle cabled lace sweater dress for conjoined twins all at the same time. While playing the ukulele with the other hand. Bitch.
But okay, putting the super-human sister aside, I do kinda have reasons for not writing right now. I have strep, for the fourth time in a year. Hopefully the antibiotics will kill it or the tonsils, they’ll be a-coming out. My work’s going a bit nuts, what with being a non-profit in a struggling economy. I just got called back to the railroad. I’m interviewing about 6 people a week for my roommate spot. I have volunteer hospice training on Saturdays this month, my pub quiz team expects me to be there every Monday, and other random nights are committed to V-Day and the Vagina Monologues. Plus there’s all the fun concerts, steam-punkery, birthday parties, baby showers, and game nights that I hate to pass up.
Oh geez, am I really going to publish this? Wah wah wah, my life is just so full of things I like right now. Poor me.
What’s the point here? Oh right, why I’m not Writing. I just… I love writing, I really do. I’m just finding it hard to decide which of the other things should be sacrificed. If I was really a Writer, I’d be sacrificing sleep, finding some way to fit it in. If Writing was like breathing to me… Well, it’s not. I’m not a Writer, I’m just a writer. And it’s gettin’ shelved, at least for today. And fuck if I’m going to feel bad about it today.
I’ll come back ’round. I always do. Writing’s not like breathing to me, it’s like laundry. I won’t DIE if I stop for a bit, I can put it off for a month, two if I buy more underwear, but eventually, I’ll get ‘er done. And oh, the purring happiness and satisfaction to be found in clean, warm clothes.
Next month. This month, I’ll be dirty and happy in steampunk gear, yelling about my vagina to a room full of railfans.
America, The Strange 
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