Time to get fierce with myself…

I’ve always believed in the clever Ashleigh Brilliant’s comment that “wasting time is an important part of living”.
Some would say I have taken this as my life credo.
However, I am usually too busy having fun to listen to these people. Doing what? Well, I’ve taught myself to knit, I can take a ball of wool,fluff and poke it with a needle until it resembles a smallish animal, I can hook rugs, bake ginger cookies, spend hours of time on Facebook (all for book promotion purposes, the Facebook stuff, which is why I play Criminal Case by the hour. I am practising for my mystery writing!) I practice ukulele like I am working towards a symphonic career.
I have a friend who needs a lift often to go places. On a day when I might be writing, I call her up, ask he how she’s doing, secretly hoping there’s a drive needed someplace, any place. Friendships are important, too, right?
And now I’ve decided to move, which has given me mountains of tasks to complete. “I need a move” I rationalize. “I need a new view, a better place, an office.”
The thing is, though, I have at least three writing projects that are in various stages of completion that I believe in, that need to be set out into the world. They are getting annoyed.
My muse is positively stomping around my apartment , knocking over packing boxes in fits of fury, and I’m starting to get that writing anxiety building up. You know the feeling, right? That gradually building bubble like a ball of gas that begs for release (though perhaps, as one author said, this is why no one should write in public). I know my fingers and brain are being primed by the need to pack and tidy but it’s almost been too long. I could explode with verbiage at any moment, start using words like verbiage, you know. Excrete words. It’s not pretty. People who have received my emails at such times are still recovering, writhing on the ground, clutching their eyes, moaning, “too many words, too many words,” like the actor in the Compleat Works of William Shakespeare, Abridged. It’s a dangerous time.
But life and pseudo-connection calls. So I am being fierce with myself, booking two weeks in June in a cottage with a view of the sea and no Internet and just me and my writing and the blissful silence of life. I’ll probably go crazy and end up dusting the place or whatever, but it’ll be me and the muse, hanging out, working out a few things.
One of us will come back, emptied and with piles of pages.
I hope it’s me.