1125 words. Well, 1572 words if you count this post.
Holy shit. Thought I would never make it.
Couldn’t write on Sunday. Just couldn’t. So, instead, I pushed myself to work around the house. Raked the lawn front and back, dug out underneath the tree at the curb, filled it with soil, then dug out the flower garden along the side of the house for my wife to be able to plant flowers. I kept my headphones on the whole time, listening to every song on my phone at random, using my MS Band to skip the ones that didn’t fit my mood.
Before I went out, I split a chicken, rubbed it with my poultry spice blend then wrapped it tight in cellophane to put into the fridge while I worked. By the time I was done, it was nice and ready. I slow cooked that, along with some beef tenderloins and some baked potatoes, along with some sautéed peppers to put with the beef and the chicken. Oh, I also made steam broccoli topped with a red onion and bacon balsamic vinaigrette. A very tasty Sunday dinner after a busy Sunday morning and afternoon.
I did all that and thought about writing. I put out the notebook, the pen, looked at them, and then went and did something else. I argued with myself, saying that I had done a good job. What was the point of continuing? I was halfway to my goal and it wasn’t even halfway through the month yet. I looked at my chart and patted myself on the back. Good work. Now, you can rest. Besides, it’s not work anyway, right? Work was the next morning.
That’s my pattern, I thought. I go for a couple of weeks, tell myself job well done, and then leave it be until I am so miserable and so inconsolable and snappy to my kids and my wife, that I have to go to my notebook and just write for the sake of writing to feel sane again. No story there. Just writing to get it out. And then the story comes out of it, and the outlines and the drafts and the spreadsheets and the excitement and then I pat myself on the back, tell myself I’m doing a great job and deserve some time off.
Well, fuck that action, folks. This bastard is getting written, come hell or high water. “Ulysses” it won’t be. I doubt it will even be as good as “Horton Hears a Who”. But it will be done, by Christ.
Again, not posting the words. Take my word for it. Those fucking 1125 words may as well have been written in blood.