Yesterday I didn’t write. I worked. I went to my weekend writing spot with every intention of writing, at least for the morning, but then started panicking about the freelance copyediting project I have, opened up the file, started working, and the day was shot from there.
A day in which I don’t write is rotten, a waste. I came home feeling angry—angry at the world, angry at daylight savings time, but it’s not the world’s fault, or the clock’s fault, it’s mine.
Just thinking about yesterday fills me with guilt. Weekdays, days I have to be at work, I can forgive. But a Sunday, a day off, a day at my writing desk? I should be punished for wasting that.
You know what would make it that much worse? Spending my morning now writing this post offline about how I didn’t write yesterday, so I end up not writing today.
So I wasted a day. So I was bad. I am also not in a race for anything; the only deadlines I’m up against are the arbitrary ones I set in my own head.
I’m going to let go of my mistake. I didn’t write; I admit it. But I can turn it all around today.