I’ve spent the morning, like I do every first day of my days off, catching up. The boring stuff, too – tidying up the kitchen, rescuing the dog from her perpetual daytime boredom, gathering my tax information for later, clipping through my RSS feeds and reading a couple of days worth of web comics, made a hot lunch for Todd and me and put an eye towards dinner. Now I’m in my chair, typing, listening to the ice on the roof crack as it basks in the end-of-winter sun.
Yeah, writing. About that.
I took the last five days of February off from writing, though I was about two days into it when I realized what I was doing. I deliberately stopped flogging myself and let the last few days slide. So far, for March, I’m back on the wagon.
It’s a wagon missing a wheel, held together with twine and will-power and led by an ostrich instead of a black stallion, but a wagon nonetheless. I even have the G license that will let me drive that wagon, but anyways.
The writing I have been doing has been all over the place, snippets here and there, my mind bucking any thoughts of Spirit Cat and running down zombie flash fiction. And yesterday? Yesterday I cheated, grabbing words by doing a writing exercise taken from the opening chapter of a writing exercise book that I’ve bough for my birthday.
I’m off to finish that little piece now. Honestly, I swear some days I’d like nothing better than to take one of these books and write nothing else until I’ve done one of them from beginning to end. Are they time-wasters, new ways to procrastinate? Yes and no. The nice thing about this particular book is that the goal isn’t just a series of writing prompts to get started on something (anything!) but instead specific lessons that try to make you look at a particular function of a piece of the craft. I’m off to finish the exercise, get my cheater’s words in, and then move on to other writing.
I’d type in my flash fiction, but I’m in the papasan chair and my right arm is paralyzed by a keetom so all I can do is type. Slowly.