When I have work to do I dream of writing. I pine after my manuscript and think, if only I had all the time in the world, I would write in a state of perfect Nirvana in a coffeeshop with my Mac, trendy glasses, and coffee that never grew cold.
When I have a break from editing papers about measuring carbon in Antarctic ice cores (Spoiler Alert: We’re all going to die), I look at my manuscript. I look out the window. I do the dishes and check my email. A thousand times. I research desk lamps to see what would fit on my tiny secretary surface. I indulge my fascination with bags. So far I have enough self-control not to buy them.
In short, I do everything but writing.
Persistence is part of what makes a successful scientist. And the same is true for writing. The sheer bloody-mindedness of forcing my damn brain to engage with the damn manuscript for the 50,000th time is what is going to get me to the end.
And then I’ll do nothing but lie on the couch, reading and eating bon-bons.
How’s February where you are?