(This is my entry for today for a project that Colette and I are doing where we are supposed to write every other day back and forth. Clearly, I am not keeping up my side of the deal. And it was MY IDEA.)
You know why I don’t write? Me, neither. Dog as my witness, between when I last wrote here two weeks ago and the “what the fuck happened?” email a week later, I forgot. Truly. I forgot that I agreed to share the task of writing every other day. Okay, I may have remembered while being somewhere inaccessible to the computer, but then promptly forget again.
So, I have to ask, what kind of writer am I? What kind of writer sits down at the computer two to ten times a day and can’t remember that she has a sworn duty to sit down and crank out 500 words? Because what’s even worse is that since the wtf email, I’ve written a reminder to myself in my online to-do list every day since and every day I’ve crossed it off undone.
What I want to go do now is reread The Courage to Write to see if I can get some insight into why I am procrastinating. Or maybe The Procrastinator’s Handbook (it’s a real book; it’s on the top shelf in the bedroom bookcase). However, I am not going to go get either one right now because that is just another way to get away from the task. Reading about writing is NOT writing. That’s not my quote. I think I may have gotten it from Ray Bradbury, or the very old woman who wrote Becoming a Writer. Either way, I’M NOT GOING TO LOOK IT UP RIGHT NOW.
This is killing me. I like to write. I want to write. Why can I not break into my day and do this? Why is it not part of my routine? I look at email every morning and several (read: many, many) times a day. I look at Facebook almost as often, even though many of the posts drive me crazy. I balance the checkbook every morning via the bank website and Quicken. I shower. I usually make the bed. I have breakfast. I usually take my various pills. Starting next week I’ll be doing all the machinations necessary to get myself and Things One and Two out the door for work and school. Why is writing not in the long list of things I’m doing every day?
It’s not like I don’t have anything to say. Before I even get to the great American novel I have several thousand words worth of rants to pass on to my reading public.
“I was drunk in a bar. I was thrown out into public.”
Thank you, Ron White.
See, I’ve got a bunch of funny stuff just waiting to emerge. Then I’ll have some insightful stuff. Then maybe I’ll have some highly readable and marketable stuff. Or maybe it will all be crap. Who cares? Must write every day. Must write every day. Must plan to write and make it part of my routine every day. Must do this so that when I’m older and grayer this will not be one of those regrets.
Note. To. Self.