Today I thought about writing a post.
Yesterday I thought about writing a post.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and not a lot of writing.
This is true for the blog, and it’s true for my novel.
I don’t even have a reason. I’ve been busy in life, but not too busy that I didn’t find the time to work my way through six seasons of The Big Bang Theory and countless movies.
Sometimes I dream about being able to quit my job and write full-time. As in, write whatever the hell I want full-time. And then I think, who am I kidding? I’d spend the time catching up on all the TV shows people are obsessed with, watching lovely movies, and reading reading reading.
I get these little ideas, little beginnings for stories. They’re still there, floating around in my mind. But I haven’t brought myself to actually write them down. Why the disconnect? Why am I so susceptible to procrastination? Why do I always forget about the C in susceptible?
Yesterday I watched three episodes of The Big Bang Theory and hung photos in my living room instead of writing. I read a chapter of Hard Laughter by Annie Lamott, and then hung a shelf in my bathroom. These things around the house are productive, yes, but they are not what I know I should be doing. If I want to be a writer, if I want to get published, then I must write.
I’m surprised I’m even writing this post right now. But, still, I know that I’m going to schedule it to run tomorrow morning, and then I’m going to eat my lunch and watch an episode of…yeah.
I’m so predictable.