I am so incredibly guilty of that 15 letter word (I just had to stop and count, don’t judge.) Instead of writing I have rearranged and fully cleaned my house, bought and planted flowers I know I won’t be able to keep alive because I’m a grade A plant killer, and started POTTY TRAINING MY YOUNGEST. The gravity of that situation is very, VERY serious, my friends, and not a task to be take lightly, because the child says “I don’t want to” so frequently now it might as well be the only thing he says.
I’ve got issues…
The worst part about it is that I know I should be writing. I know my youngest, like his older brother, will not do a thing he doesn’t want to until he’s damn well good and ready to. I know the inevitable mess that will devour my house whole again the second I turn my back. I know that I’m avoiding the laptop.
The thing is, I think I’m some weird mixture between fearful of failing despite my CLEAR awesomeness (ha! I kid, I kid!) and resentful that the book won’t write itself, which I find incredibly rude. I sort of wish I had a coauthor, but I also know I’d abhor that with a passion with every single cell of my being. I want to be the author but I don’t want to write it, you know?
So what’s a writer to do?
Write. That’s what. Not the easiest pill to swallow right there, but I know ultimately I’m going to have to glue my buttcheeks to the chair and actually type actual words into the actual word processor. I’m going to have to figure out the characters next moves to get them through that AWFUL middle part of the book so I can finally start on the climax and the resolution and have a product I can *gag* edit.
And edit again. And a few more times, until it’s polished and perfect and then once more for good measure.
But that’s the point, I guess. If anything is worth doing, it’s worth doing (the literal action). So, that’s what I’m going to do.
Back to buying diapers for now.