I have to say, the thought of pounding out a "Writing Wednesday" post right now feels like the epitome of hypocrisy. I've hardly written a thing in months. This is, in part, because I haven't had a day off in months, but there are plenty of writers out there who seem to manage to juggle endless numbers of part-time jobs, children, pets, sick parents or complicated relationships and STILL turn out page after page.
I'm just not one of them.
I'm sitting here at 10 PM, halfway to the flu and trying desperately not to go the rest of the way (I'm probably doomed though, seems like half my coworkers are out), typing awkwardly over a large black lump (aka my cat, Rullie), chugging chai and gazing longingly at the packet of HobNobs I've told myself I can open as a reward for getting this post written.
But I'm not exulting in my NaNoWriMo word count, 'cause I'm not doing it. I'm not editing my last one, 'cause I failed at it. The one before that? It's in the living room, but I can't even bring myself to dig it out and try to polish it. My muse, if I ever had one, has left the building. I know, I know, "if you show up every day, eventually the muse will too." Showing up every day? Oh right, yeah, that'd be work. And writing? That's a job too, albeit one I don't usually get paid for, and I can't seem to make myself add any more commitments to this pile.
So for those of you who ARE NaNo-ing, I salute your perseverance, your word count (whatever it is), your put-the-butt-in-the-chair-ness. For those painstakingly editing their most recent manuscript until it fair cries out to be printed and shelved in bookstores everywhere, well done! English teachers, journalists, college students, congratulations!
I just can't seem to do it right now. Unless you count this. Yay?
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