I am so completely unable to write (or for that matter do anything constructive) today. I thought I’d give blogging a shot and see if that helped.
I’ve basically procrastinated all I can today. I surfed the web. I checked my email repeatedly. I went to the gym. I went to the grocery store. I bought a Jamba Juice. I walked home. Slowly. Up the biggest hill. I took a shower. I cruised around iTunes for a while, and downloaded a few songs. Thinking I might get inspired by others’ examples, I downloaded a few podcasts of interviews with writers. I’ve snacked on some cookies, paced the house, stood outside and stared at the plants in the garden … Sigh. More than half the day is gone and what do i have to show for it beside a few cookie crumbs on my shirt? Um, not much.
I did decide that the LA Times book section is better than the NY Times’. I learned that Britney Spears had another kid. That the NY Times unnecessarily and rather appallingly has a “top story” today (more like gossip) about Condoleeza Rice’s personal life. I saw that SF Chronicle food writers have a pretty sweet gig. Ok, I already knew that. But really, 10 weeks to investigate the best burritos of the Bay Area? What a cushy job.
The point is… I keep hearing about these published authors who lock themselves away in a room for 10 hours a day to crank out pages. I can freely admit that I am not necessarily one of these people. My daily writing flow tops out at five hours. On a very good day. Usually it’s more like two or three hours. And I get weird, not talking to people all day. How do they not get weird? Or maybe they do, and the weirdness feeds on itself to produce dark and psychological novels. I don’t know. But I am not writing a dark and pyschological novel, I’m writing a travel memoir. I don’t want to be weird. I’m going outside.