So. Slack me. Do you see a pattern approaching here? Funny thing is, I’ve spent the last week counselling (not cow selling, DYAC) a friend about making the appropriate changes in her life to let her take control, and what do I do? Complain about not having time. Energy. That granny procrastination has come home to roost again.
What is wrong with me?
Right. This is it. You heard it here first. I’m going to take control, dammit. I’m going to make this fiction stuff a daily occurrence, and I MEAN IT this time.
The only person to blame for my lack of success and my indifference is me. When I wake up, 70 and crinkly and retired, I don’t want to be celebrating the fact I finally have time to write that bestseller I’ve always gone on about. Even more, I don’t want to be procrastinating at that age. No crinkly procrastination for me, no siree!
I enjoy writing, so I don’t see what the problem is. I’m writing this, aren’t I? I love escaping to other worlds. I love creating other worlds. I want to do it more often. And I want to get to a stage where I can share stories and novels and passages and have people enjoy them. I really, really want that. It’s selfish, I know. Sure, I want to bring happiness and enjoyment to others, but I want to do it for my own self-satisfaction. Anyone who says otherwise is so totally lying.
I want to write. I’m driven to write. I HAVE to write. There’s no reason why I can’t write. I have the tools. I apparently have the talent.
I’m gonna do this. I’m so gonna do this.
Please tell me I mean it this time?
Any volunteers for bum-kicking if I don’t?