I am SUCH a bad working writer.
I can find more ways to procrastinate about writing than there are words in a thesaurus. I clean my house, I putter with kitchen objects, I decide to repot plants, I do laundry, fer the love of Shakespeare.
I’m getting tired of myself. It’s time to get to work, get things done, move forward. Instead I find reasons to read books, watch tv, walk about, exercise…spend time with friends…
Yah, I know. Exercise is a good thing. Reading is a good thing. Friends are important.
But life passes on with very little to show for it, and it is getting to ridiculous times.
Today I am revising my novella or perishing in the attempt. It’s going to be hotter than stink today so I have no excuse or capability to do anything but sit and write.
Well, unless I hang out with my birdies and let them out for a play…
Dang.
I am so good at thinking of escapes. Now I need to be great at applying myself!