Everything but ….

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.

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3 Responses to Everything but ….

  1. Margaret says:

    Oh …. Oh I love you. Are we twins? I do the EXACT SAME THING. I’m sorry the fingerless gloves aren’t terrifying enough. Maybe I should make you test-knit something with entrelac in it? You’re clearly getting a lot done — just congratulate yourself for that and then FORCE yourself to do the scary thing for a little while, too. You can do it.

  2. Leyla says:

    Be careful what you wish for… having something so terrifying that you want to avoid it and write instead, might not be worth it. I hope that a more positive nudge will come your way to keep you focused on your passions. For example, a little break in the busy schedule (no yoga class tomorrow so you could go home and write). Best wishes at finding that precious time and motivation to stay true to your life goals. 🙂

  3. jmforceton says:

    Enjoyed your poem on EDP today. I seem to have the same problem you talk about in this post. Writing a lot of poems and short stories and the novel I’m 15,000 words into, after, it seems, decades, has been stalled for six months. The main character has yet to say a word.

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