I am tempted to lie today.
I want to say that I caught up on stories and that writing has been this deep, fulfilling thing this week. But, I set this thing up as an accountability exercise as well as an exercise in writing and so I have to admit:
I am so way behind on stories. 6 so far.
I have not written more than five sentences this week.
I have been binge eating chocolates to compensate for the lack of writing.
A friend and I sat on the porch of the Sewanee dorms during the Sewanee 2013 writer’s conference (the same year K.K and I met) and laughed at my desire to motivate myself by way of public humiliation. It is an odd technique, I will give you that. But, hey, once I put it out in the world, could I really declare myself a failure in front of so many people. We do what we can to push ourselves along. And this week should be a good reality check, I’m thinking.
I’m also thinking that there is something so particularly interesting about the odd intersection of writing life and real life, that point where guilt resides, and where I seem to be hovering. This idea of guilt when I am not writing. I know so many of my writer friends that go through this. Usually, it’s K.K that I turn to. But this week has been a slow one for bbm. Not for guilt, though. That one seems to be mounting.
This is typically when I turn to K.K (speaking of that co-dependency) and ask her to deliver a good kick in the ass. And the good friend that she is, she does, although a mild one that seems to be as effective as anything I ask for. She is the best diplomat I know. But given that she has a lovely story out this week, I figured maybe news of doom and gloom is not what she needs right now.
Saving doom and gloom for later.
And in order to make myself an honest woman, I’m heading towards Microsoft Word. Meanwhile, an unlearned script for new play for the Emirates Literature Festival stares at me from my bag. If I find white hair in my head, I’ll know what happened.