I’ve just arrived in my writing closet. I’ve got a nice cup of coffee. I’ve pushed hubby’s shirts to the side to give me a little breathing room and positioned my laptop in the center of the TV tray, which serves as my desk. This morning, I plan to add to the document titled “Freewrite-New Novel,” now at 60+ pages. It’s time to start turning my notes into a workable outline so I can get to the really fun part of all this, the actual writing.
The little clock perched on my closet windowsill is ticking loudly (I find this soothing; I’m weird that way). I have two hours…make that one and a half hours…until I pick up the tot from preschool. Time to get seriously to work, and yet there are a lot of other things I could do today.
I can't see it from the closet, but I know there are three loads of laundry on my bed waiting to be put away. The kitchen sink is full of dishes. The dog is looking at me, and his face seems to be saying, if you don't take me for a walk this instant, so help me God I will find your new, expensive running shoes and I will SO tear them into itsy bitsy pieces you will not even recognize them when I’m done!
The dog doesn’t care if I write today. Nobody does, really, not even the people who love and support me. They just want me to be happy. If writing makes me happy, they want me to do that; if not, I should do something else. My goals are mine and mine alone. I'm the CEO, and the sole employee, of this here shoestring operation.
Being accountable to no one has its advantages of course. I can skip out on work entirely. But I know that writers who really make it, who rise above that "emerging" category I'm currently floating in, are the ones who balance their bouts of lazy procrastination with an extreme case of motivational drive. We can take a rejection letter, feel the sting momentarily, and then fire off another submission. We can face that blank page and know that we'll fill it with something, anything, and that, eventually, it will be good… or the boss will kill us. My boss is a bona fide bitch, but at the end of day, I want her to be happy, and so I write.