Why is writing so hard? I mean, for the love! Seriously! What is wrong with me? I thought I loved writing, or is it, I love to have written? Starting is the worst. I should have been writing for an hour now, and here’s what I did instead: cleaned out my purse and restocked my kleenexes. Printed out my son’s paper for him. Clipped my hangnail. Checked Facebook, OF COURSE. Responded to emails, just in case there was something important that couldn’t wait, like, AN HOUR. Started laundry. Hung up random clothes that I would otherwise never hang up had there not been a looming writing date in front of me. Hmm. The kitchen looks way too clean, so I must have done something in there.
WHY??? Why is it so much more fun to do crap like that than actually write? Seriously? Because, I rationalize, it will bother me, and I won’t be able to concentrate until it’s done. Really? Because have you seen your garage, Jodi? Or how about the wall that was knocked down in the middle of your house that hasn’t been finished off? What about THAT? So honestly, I would never write again if it were for all the crap that needs to be done in here. So what gives? Why the procrastination?
Maybe because when I do menial tasks, I accomplish something, and with writing, I may not. I may write a piece of crap and somehow that’s more scary than leaving dirty dishes in the sink. And writing, it’s me. It’s putting myself out there. Clipping a hang nail? No one cares. I’m sure there is a really deep concept behind this rant, but the truth is, even this rant is one more detour away from the hard work of writing ahead. I have a deadline I gave myself to write a blog post; instead, I’m just ranting about how I don’t want to write it, which, is writing I guess. But I’m still avoiding the task at hand: the stupid blog post I don’t want to write. GAH. I think there's some laundry to fold. Ooo! And a new text just came in….