For the last month or so, I’ve been dreaming of having several days to write. I have a new story in the hopper, several that need to be revised and sent out, and a new, smashing cover letter to create. So, I was very happy to learn I’d have four days in a row to actually put some words on a page. I was happy, until I realized: I have four days to actually put words on a page. Suddenly, I was plagued by anxiety. Planning my future brilliance is always so much easier than actually producing something tangible. Nothing is more frightening than running out of excuses. How to begin? With a list, of course. Until I realized that I was making a list in order to avoid doing the things on the list. So I did what any self-respecting frightened writer would do. I sat on the couch, swilled my Diet Mountain Dew, crunched on oyster crackers (low-calorie – no trans-fat), and played Pogo games while watching reality TV, including All-Star Celebrity Apprentice. Now it’s late in the evening, and the only thing I have to show for WRITING: DAY ONE is a bloated belly and a very short blog entry. I’d say “baby steps,” if I didn’t think I’d be insulting infants.
Okay, then. Tomorrow is another day, and now that I’ve confessed my writing sins to my massive blog audience, perhaps I’ll be shamed into doing better. One can hope that with another bottle of Diet Dew and some better low-cal snacks, I’ll be able to rouse the genius within. Or the little spark within that pretends it’s genius. I’ll take whatever dormant force I can prod into action.
I am ashamed.
