I’ve had my manuscript counter sitting over there on the sidebar for months (go ahead, scroll down; I’ll still be here when you get back), and the number has barely budged. I thought having it there would pressure me to write the second half of the book I’m working on. Hah!
I know that I should force myself to get up even earlier and just write those few pages a day that all the well-respected writing authorities assure me will mean a finished first draft in no time, and yet, no pages in months.
There are tons of excuses, as there always are when you aren’t doing something you know you should be doing. The biggest one for me is that other things like work that pays the bills gets in the way–and when work that pays the bills is other types of writing, well, the last thing I want to do is sit down and write in my “free” time.
After all, the first step in The Writer’s 12 Step Inspirational Program is to admit that you are a writer. So here I am. With the paragraphs to prove it.
Turn to page 123 in your work-in-progress. (If you haven’t gotten to page 123 yet, then turn to page 23. If you haven’t gotten there yet, then get busy and write page 23.) Count down four sentences and then instead of just the fifth sentence, give us the whole paragraph.*
*Since I like to make my own rules, I’ll give you a paragraph from pages 23 and 123 of the same
Just as that thought occurred to me, a light went on in Frank’s kitchen. Are you kidding me? Daisy couldn’t have woken him up. And anyway, he must’ve gone through this hundreds of times when Bianca was alive. Don’t your sleep patterns adjust to these sorts of things? The rain bounced off Bianca’s umbrella lightly but steadily as I turned my whole body to face Daisy. I thought maybe she would pick up the pace, fearing Frank’s wrath. Instead, I saw only the swaying tail of my new best friend as she trotted toward Frank’s kitchen. So much for being afraid of the rain.
But there was no time to think. I opened the glass doors of the china cabinet and felt around as much as I could without disturbing the various pieces of crystal waiting to clang together. Ah! There was a key in between two glasses. I tried to pry up the jagged edge, but just as I had a grip, the ceiling above me, which corresponded with the top of the steps, moaned. Anthony was coming. I pulled back my hand, shut the doors, and swiped my coffee mug from the dining room table just as he rounded the corner.
Phew. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?
[tags]writing, writing fiction, memes[/tags]