Even my writing app, Writeometer, knows I’m no good. I am horrible at keeping any kind of writing schedule, and this app is happy to let me know it. Because of the subject matter of the project in question, I’ve set a goal date to be finished with a first draft for April 18, 2017.
I missed that. Now, the app is glad to tell me that I’ll be missing that goal for years to come if I don’t buckle down.
See? Here I am not writing my novel draft, yet I have plenty of motivation to write a post about my friend Procrastination. I have also just updated my journal for the past week ( I just plain don’t have the energy most nights to keep up) and now I am ready to read before crashing in a few hours.
All the while, the writing project is in the back of my brain, muttering and wringing its hands, wondering if I am am ignoring it on purpose. I suppose I kind of am ignoring it. But the project ought to be used to that by now. Yet I feel the waves of failure wash over me.
If I had a secret that would let me sit and write, I’d be a happy, productive soul. Of course, I know that secret: sit your ass in the chair and do the work. I have heard that voice for so long now, it’s really become an old friend.
Or a frenemy.
Either way, I think I will delete that damn app. Who does it think it’s talking to, anyway?
Maybe I’ll write for an hour before lights out tonight. Don’t judge me, Writeometer. I think I know me better than you do.
I’ll live another day to (think about/attempt to/take a weak stab at) this writing thing. And to heck with your word counts. Word counts are for Wrimos, and I have proven four times over that I’m not a Wrimo.
I’m just a depressed creative type who needs to get her mojo back. I’ll just be over here, looking for that. I am sure I lost it somewhere nearby.