I talk all big. I send my work out. I encourage everyone to get the fuck off the internet and write. But what about me? I decide not to edit today because it is some holiday or something. I sit down to write.
What do I write? A fifteen-minute poem about my dog getting skunked last night. Then I get up and finish the book I couldn’t finish last night due to a) the fumes and b) the need to wash my dog five times.
I get something to eat and sit down at my desk [dining room table]. Wait, I don’t think I’ve updated my blog since yesterday! This has got to change! And then I can complain on the world wide webs about my stupid dog getting skunked. Pity. Maybe if I get some pity, I can write.
Now my stomach hurts. Maybe I should lie down for a bit. Is the cold that the Young Man has spreading to me? I’d better relax. Formerly skunked dog curls up beside me smelling of baby shampoo and, well, a bit of skunk. This is better than working, right?
I should probably get up and write. I am feeling better. Or am I? I dreamt last night of my dead mother holding my dead cat (they were both alive in the dream.) She said that she should have gotten the golden retriever when she had the chance. We never had a golden retriever.
Have I been working too hard? Do I need some time off to “refill the bucket” as they say? Or am I just being lazy? Am I letting the ADD rule my life yet again? What is the line?
When do you work and when do you take time off? Am I a privileged jerk to even ask this question?