Certain friends of mine are laboring under the illusion that writing is something we want to do, rather than something that we are so glad to have already done.
Hm, what have I done instead of writing? I tried to interest my sleeping spouse in taking me out for breakfast. I planned our Thanksgiving menu. I returned some emails, and adjudicated a family argument about candy bars (don’t ask). I did the dishes. I wrote a blog post. And that was all before 10:00 this morning.
Let’s take the wider view. This week I went to work, went out with colleagues, watched a bunch of Stargate, read some books, walked my dog, did the dishes, talked to my spouse, did Important Grownup Thing Involving Real Estate on Wednesday, proofread a poetry manuscript for a friend, and pretty much avoided writing the best I could.
Looking at my manuscript makes me want to barf or cry or wash dishes. Again. But what are my options? Writing is terrible. But it’s a fuckload better than not writing.
Back to the trenches, my friends.