I’ve been so busy at work that I have zero energy to write when I get home. So I haven’t. For days. Written anything, I mean. I have, of course gone home. I would never stay in the office if I didn’t have to. Who would do that? Not me, babycakes. So I did go home. Was there all weekend in fact and I didn’t do diddly-shit.
Now I can hear those “tisk, tisks” going on out there. Am I proud of doing nothing when there are starving writers willing to work 16 hours a day at an office job and still produce 2k works to add to their manuscript each and every evening and twice on Saturday, pounding their fingers to the bone in the process?
No. No, I am not.
Yes, I know I should have put my ass in the computer chair and kept it there until I wrote something… anything… but honestly, I think I would have fallen asleep way before any writing would have happened.
I blame it on age. My age. My old age. OK, ok… I’m not really ancient but I feel it. And aren’t feelings real? Doesn’t that count for something for Christsake. Shouldn’t I give myself the permission to slack off and be a slug if I want???
And right now…. that is what I want to be. An unproductive, tv-watching, procrastinating, lazy, good for nothing, non-writing slug of a gun. There! I’ve admitted it. Not proud of it but it’s out there, for good or bad and for all the world of the internet to see and shake their finger at me for.
See there, I can’t even form a proper sentence. I AM A FUCKING HAZARD TO WRITING AT THIS MOMENT IN TIME!
This is why I did not even attempt to write. It would have been a mortal sin against all those great writers who ever lived or who ever will live.
Now, excuse me, I think I’ll go and not do more diddly-shit.