I felt proud of myself last week, counting the posts I’ve written this month. Except for a brief stint during August (my birthday month!) I haven’t blogged this consistently since 2021, and I haven’t written consistently since before then. Yet I stayed away from my computer this weekend in regards to writing. I expected to open things up this morning and have a lot to say.
I didn’t.
This weekend I worried I was getting a cold, and something still feels a little off in my sinuses, but I think I’ve avoided getting sicker than I was at the beginning of the weekend. I did my workout this morning. Drank my green juice, just in case I don’t have enough veggies today. (I rarely have enough veggies.) I see sun outside. I should be able to conjure some words about something, but the only thing that comes to mind is how many cars I’ve seen speeding down our side street this morning. And everyone knows those types of complaints belong in an HOA Facebook group, bonus points if you can make it passive aggressive.
I know the old adage about being able to edit a bad page but not a blank page. I’ve internalized it enough to know I can sit here and type, though I won’t edit it, even if it’s a rambling mess, because it’s a blog I don’t even think people read.
The blank pages in Scrivener, though, where my fiction projects live, intimidate me right now. I haven’t managed to figure out how to start my next project, and I haven’t genuinely started editing my last one. It’s so old I’m not even sure if I can. That’s probably an excuse, but it doesn’t make it any less daunting.
March enters the chat at the end of the week, and maybe that will give me the push I need to stop being scared and to start doing the work.
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