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| Get to work. Maybe comb that hair. |
The other day I was asked- by more than one person- what I was “working on” these days.
Writing, I replied.
Real writing? They asked. Or just blogging?
Which made me think. ‘Cause it’s true- what initially began as a creative outlet for my projects and an incentive to keep going has rapidly become the norm in terms of output. And it’s not like I don’t have a plethora of other thingies on which to work. I do. Tons.
But here’s the kicker: none of them are [yet] on the interwebz.
Thusly, the instant gratification of publication and glory of crazy page views is nonexistent. Meaning- I have to write it for good ol’ fashioned personal purposes. And hope that someone with the ability to dole out paychecks will a) read it, b) pay me, and c) put it on the interwebz. Sure, the majority of stuff that I write about on this blog is Not Art, but do you see my conundrum? I’m already attaining the end result of publication, sans paycheck. Or glory.
Okay, it’s not a conundrum so much as laziness.
‘Cause here’s the thing- I AM lazy. I can hear you thinking to yourself [Mom]: Keely, you are NOT lazy. You are energetic and wonderful and beautiful and fiercely intelligent.
And while two of those things are undoubtedly true, the busy work with which I exhaust my husband is not the product of non-laziness, but rather a childlike and irritating OCDesque tendency to do what feels right for that very moment until it stops being exciting and then it’s time for a nap. I am a furniture-moving hedonist.
How does this affect my Good Writing? Well, it’s a two-fold answer. The first part is this: anything remotely witty or funny or weird I immediately reserve for the blog. And use a ton of energy to [stupidly] make awkwardly long essays on Mondays and Thursdays. (Why are they so long? I have no editor. That’s another one of those “paycheck” things.)
The second part concerns the snippets of time wherein I actually feel like producing actual words on paper. If and when the stars align- Nora is napping/I am caffeinated/the furniture isn’t bugging me- then I usually feel a guilty twinge about starting the next blog post. Because- and this is the special part- the [minor] success of the blog has ensured that I value [obsess over] reader comments and feedback. And since I’ve been gently reminded [berated] to post when I’m an hour or two late, I certainly don’t want to offend/lose my audience/feel even more guilt over my inability to just get one more thing done OH MY GOD THAT OTTOMAN IS ALL WRONG.
This is a very long-winded way of announcing that today’s blog may suffer a tad in Awesome. As will the state of Feng Shui in my house. For my resolution in the month of December (New Year’s? Yeah- anyone can do that) is to stop being such a leech of time and energy.
For example, if I played Farmville? I would stop.
That hour after Nora goes to bed and right before I watch some programmes? I will stop whining to P.J. about How. Much. I. Have. To. Do. And I may actually do it.
I shall expand my workable [writeable] hours to now include right before bed (too sleeeeepy), while Nora’s happily playing with her Miniature Army of Cute (’cause while I usually say that I’m trying to be In The Moment with her…I’m really just checking Facebook statuses on my iPhone) and I may even start to include some unorthodox methods of writing such as using actual paper and pens.
I will finish plays and one-acts and short stories and essays and that book about snarky unicorns. (Intrigued? Okay, it’s really about babies and falling-down houses. But that raises an excellent question- would you buy a book about a snarky unicorn? ‘Cause that could totally be bumped up on the priority list.)
Starting now.
Or maybe after work.
If Nora goes to sleep smoothly and there isn’t too much carnage to pretend to clean.
But definitely tomorrow morning.
Because a [writing] writer’s lifestyle is possible to maintain and that’s my point. It is. Possible and my point. Both.
The End.
For now.
Times a million minus a nap.
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“Once upon a time, there was a marvelous horned beast named Chester…” <---(How's it done.)
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