When All That’s Left is Writing

I’d rather go on a walk right now than write my book.

I’m writing this now from the basement as I watch my husband try and soothe our over-tired two-year-old to sleep. I’m supposed to be writing my novel.

I’m not shirking my duties, I’m taking a break from my own brain and allowing myself the luxury of writing something that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Veteran writers will tell you it’s important to write every day to keep that particular muscle strong but I’m finding it so difficult to even get two days a week. How am I supposed to write a novel if my pace is less than 2,000 words per week? And that’s the shitty words I’m just trying to get on the page, not beautifully crafted phrases, or anything.

I’d rather take a shower right now than write my book.

After spending the morning seeing in-laws, mowing my mom’s yard, spending time with kids, cleaning up after kids, and finally sitting down to write, I just can’t seem to muster the motivation it takes to delve back into the world I’m creating.

Does it take more energy to work toward a bigger picture item? Is there more at stake and that’s why I can’t bring myself to JUST FUCKING DO IT! (TM Nike)? I have no problem sitting here writing this (and if anyone is keeping track, the toddler has gotten up four times since I started writing this, we’ve just put the crib side back on after two weeks of it being off with no problem).

I’d rather do laundry right now that write my book.

I created those characters, I picked the story arc, it’s something I’m passionate about, even. So WHY don’t I want to write? It takes as much effort as what I’m doing RIGHT NOW! Fuck it, I need to do it so Imma fuckin do it (TM Nike).

I’d rather be writing this blog, but I’m going to write my book.

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