Here are all the things I could be doing instead of writing this chapter of my novel:
eating fudge / dyeing my hair blue / reading Mathilda Savitch / reading Going Bovine / answering that email / writing the pitch for the new novel I’m excited about / eating pizza / putting away the laundry / cleaning the stove / filing papers / sneaking in some dayjob work / walking around the block / standing on my head / tweeting about how I’m not writing / napping / waking up after napping and regretting napping / trying to find my lost glove / rerecording myself reading chapter one out loud because the first time I did it the sound levels were all off and I sound fuzzy / watching TV / dozing off while watching TV / seriously trying to find my lost glove / writing this blog post
I could go on, but instead I’m going to try to go back in to this chapter for a couple more hours. The problem is that I’m in limbo, or my life is. And when I’m in between like this, I feel all out of sorts. In flux. Pantsless or something. (I should add to the list above: “making excuses.” But don’t worry, I am out in public and I am wearing pants.) The next two weeks will be busy, but by the start of November I’ll be completely focused and totally immersed in finishing this first draft by deadline.
This is what I tell myself. And if you tell yourself something enough times IT COMES TRUE.