I stall beautifully. Today, instead of working on the novel, I did 45 minutes of yoga, knit the second thumb on a pair of complicated fingerless mitts, cooked long a slow oatmeal because it’s “good for you”, read several short stories, talked a lot about writing, went to the gym, pet the cat, cleaned the kitchen and folded laundry. When I finally sat down to write, I managed to bang out three rather lovely poems – lovely, that is, until I look at them tomorrow – and submit three cleaned up pieces to take their chances out in the world. But, did I write on the novel? Did I even open the file? God, no.
If only I could find something even more terrifying and meaningful than the novel, then I could avoid the new thing by writing on the novel, as my poetry production has certainly increased since decided that poetry was not what I was going to focus on.
What’s hard to remember is to congratulate myself for at least sitting down and writing. Writing something anyway, which is better than nothing. And see, now I have a post, as well, which is still not the novel, but also not nothing.