Meandering.

Triumphant comeback notwithstanding, my writing output's been herky-jerky, a paragraph here, 1000 words there. Days in between. I've heard people suggest giving myself a deadline, but then I'd just feel guilty about breaking an arbitrary goal I'd set for myself. I don't need more practice with that, to be honest.

I thought I'd try immersion, a couple of weeks ago. I discovered Camp Nanowrimo (www.Campnanowrimo.org), a new 50k-in-one-month project brought to the world in August. I cranked out 1700 words the first day and then let life distract me. Vet appointments, changes at work, dates with the hubby, lollygagging. Today's the 8th? Yeah. But, hey. 1700 (Ok, about 2000--I've added a few bits here & there since the 1st) words more than what I had on July 31st, and a new idea for a longer story out of it, as well. So, I'm ahead, relatively speaking.

I have my shiny new replacement computer provided by the nice NVidia folks, and I still get a wee thrill when I sit down in front of it. My office is cozy, environmentally encouraging for free thinking and navel gazing. I have pistachios. All systems go.

(crickets chirping)

I think part of the problem (beyond the nameless terror preventing me from making an honest effort) is my tendency to dwell on how little time I have in blocks. Not that I don't really have enough time, because I do. But I take a long time to settle in, arrange the above-mentioned bowl of pistachios (and the empty bowl for the shells) and a glass of iced tea into a configuration within reach but not in the way, find a place in the story to start, choose the appropriate music for the mood I'm in/trying to evoke, narrow down the font I want for the day and get into a state of proper concentration. There's serious preparation going on, here. By the time all that's done, it's time for whatever outside obligation I have for the day. And with the interruptions (potty breaks for me and the dogs, refills on the tea, checking the mail, generalized scratching,) I often get nowhere even with the best intention.

I know this is a common problem. I think it's called procrastination. I remember hearing somewhere that people aren't lazy. They're either sick or tired. That helps us feel a little better about ourselves, maybe, but the problem's still there.

But hey, I'm writing a little something every day, if only a meandering blog post or a grocery list. I use a pen to mark off the day on the calendar. Things are looking up. I'm rusty, sure. But not rusted shut.

I just had a brilliant idea. I could maintain the longest-running blog for an aspiring writer who can't ever quite get to the writing. Each week a new hope, dashed by ennui, anxiety and/or prime-time television. Tonight was "True Blood." You don't expect me to miss that, do you? It's literary and everything. I'm studying story structure over a larger arc.

I'm 43. I'm a patient woman. The question is, how much time do I really have, and do I really want to be writing horror stories when I'm 82? Ok, that's not the question, because the answer is yeah, I really do want that. The question is, when will I hit bottom and start to crawl back up, so i can be writing stories when I'm 82? See? Plenty of time.