The crazy thing about wanting to do something and having the time, so it’s less attractive to do, as opposed to wanting to do something and having absolutely no time to do it. Horns of a Dilemma.
Hmmm. Sounds like some dime novel title. Except it’s been used before and dime novels now cost $5.
Is this some kind of psychological mind game?
Naw, merely the realization that time, inclination and motivation don’t do algebra or even geometry very well.
Did you say Euclidian geometry?
Nope, simply geometry. Most of which is Euclidian. I repeated that word ‘cause it’s fun to say. And write. Actually, this runs into the field of psychology. Happily, with ribbons and streamers dancing in the sunlight of a quiet Sunday afternoon. And yes, I know full well that Monday will come charging up at sunrise, demanding I Get to Work.
Oh, so you anthropomorphize your inclinations?
Yes, I do. They are much more fun that way.
Oh, dear. The whips and chains have come out. And dogs. And torches. Which means I really have to get this blog started. The idea was a fun one, but I think it got left in the swamp of an interrupted afternoon nap, followed by a lack of caffeine.
You see what I have to work with, all these voices chittering away like squirrels too high in the tree to chase them away? And I did have a point with starting this thing. I’m dithering between 6 different projects, two of which are book length adventure/mystery, one non-fiction piece and a couple of short stories dangling in edit purgatory. That leaves the lone blog, defenseless unable to run away from me. It limps and whimpers, afraid I’ll do something before it is prepared to face the world.
But I won’t. Once I get going, words will flow, images will gel into some kind of coherent structure and I’ll have a lovely, intelligent essay ready. It’s just that getting going part is rougher than usual today.
I’m attempting to get myself into a routine of writing Sunday afternoon, editing Monday morning while I do laundry, set some bread to rise, and seek out a few raging dust bunnies. Except by now they are more like treacherous tangled tigers, ravaging the chair legs in the kitchen. What? Too many T’s?
Whew! Almost lost my train of thought there, caught up with the disaster of the kitchen. I was talking about establishing a routine for writing while allowing for life to continue. Because I do write, a lot. And I do have goals, which every honest writer needs.
Don’t get me started on being dis-honest. I put the hyphen in there on purpose, to call attention to my own conflicts. Am I a writer or a dilettante? A teller of meaningful tales or a useless hack, beating my fingers bloody to feed the gaping maw of a demanding public?
Sorry, the purple prose police arrested me for over-use of adjectives. Had to pay the fine or no writing for a week. Stupid rules. Not like it’s a felony offense or anyth…Oh, did I write in my outside voice? Again? Sorry.
And I do sincerely apologize for saying the public is demanding or has a gaping maw. You, Gentle Reader, are the reason I keep going. I want to writer for you. It’s simply that I’m a tiny, ittsy bit stuck. And Facebook is telling me to Write More of Something.
And I did. So there, Facebook, you and your snippy, rat-me-out Results page. Your 500 words, in your face.
Oh, sorry, must run now. I see the glow of torches, the clash of pitchforks and the high pitched caterwauling of critics. We will continue our lovely discussion of Writer Ethics at a later date. After I come out of hiding. Next week or perhaps Tuesday afternoon. After the battle of the vacuum cleaner and the window smucher. Ah, paper towels, ethics be damned.