I have two -and-a-half hours to write this morning before my husband brings the kids home from swimming lessons.
So far, I’ve chosen my favorite Super Bowl commercial, caught up on my favorite webcomics, and came here to whine.
It’s gonna be one of those kinds of days. I’m just not feeling it.
But I’m gonna try cranking up some Black-Eyed Peas—the versions I don’t play in front of the kids—open up my Future Outline and see if I can flesh some things out, add some ideas, make some notes, check the timeline. If the words won’t come, I’ll play with the ones I’ve got for a while.
But if that doesn’t work, maybe I’ll just take the day off. Turn off the laptop and walk away. Play with the kids, go buy some Valentines and jellybeans for tomorrow’s Sunday School project, read a book.
Come back later.
This concept brings feelings of relief and sheer terror. If I was a Real Writer™, wouldn’t I sit my rear down and shove sentences through my unwilling brain until X number of pages are done? Wouldn’t I scoff at the excuse of “not feeling it” and sneer at doing anything but putting letters in recognizable order on the page?
Am I not risking everything?
What if I close up my WIP and never feel like coming back? What if this is the first step to severe writer’s block? Or even giving up?
What if I’m just a wannabe, after all?
What if I take a deep breath? What if I remember that I usually write in the evenings, anyway? What if I remember that I carry a notebook and pen with me everywhere I go so I can jot things down as they occur?
What if I remember that every Real Writer™ is different, though if it matters, most of them appear to take time away from their keyboards and pens, too?
What if I stop raving into the blogosphere and go put on Pump It? See what happens?
Yeah. That sounds good.
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Picture taken by Fruggo
Earful of Cider 