Apparently it was of catastrophic importance that I clean house today. After waking at 3:59am thanks to booming music from the neighbors, I cast a bleary eye at the kitchen and must have made a subliminal decision to clean because that’s what’s I’ve done a good deal of the day. (I went back to bed at 4:15, although my neighbors did not. Music went off at 5:38am.)
I have not written for three days; I’ve been stuck. This is ironic, given that I’m revising one work, and the other’s been in my head for a couple of years. I just —sit.
Here at the keyboard, my muse hibernates, yet manages to throw shiny distractions out. Okay, so it’s not my muse doing that. It’s a little demon called perfectionism. That thing made me get up yesterday and go for a WALK, which otherwise would be good medicine, but it was procrastination at its finest. I can rationalize a walk, and cleaning house, even sleeping. I’m an expert.
F.E.A.R. Tony Robbins states that this is False Evidence Appearing Real. So I must ferret out what scares me the most and call it what it is: a ghost. No, not a ghost; they scare me, too. What’s not scary? I could follow Sandler’s Water Boy visualization of babies, but that’s just not for me.
A scarf isn’t scary. And it’s silly enough to make me giggle.
Oh. God, now I’m delirious. Please, just let me write. Even if it sucks.
So, once more into the fray. I’d really like to have something of note to report on Day 7.