I decided that I am my own worst enemy.  Hard thing to admit, but it’s true.  I am the reason my book isn’t getting finished.  &&& what I decided the most is that it’s not because I can’t write.  All I would have to do is sit down and write.  But it seems when I sit down to write I find something else to do.  Then, I turn around and blame it not having inspirations (although, at one point I didn’t have any, but I do now.) or not being able to write when I want to.

Truth is – I’m lazy.  I never thought a person could be too lazy to sit in a chair && do nothing but hit buttons on a keyboard.  But apparently I am.  I go into my “writing room” – which isn’t actually that, it’s an empty room that my computer sits in with a calendar, cork board, & dry erase marker board on the walls – pull out my chair, sit down, roll around the wooden floor screaming “weeeeeeeeeee” for about thirteen and a half minutes – finally pull up my story and then I sit and stare at the words on the screen.  My eyes bounce around the words as my brain tries to decide if I want to remove some of them.  When it finally decides to stop they bounce around the room.  I’ll turn around in circles in the chair.  I’ll roll over to the window and stare out at it, which would be my sister-in-law’s house.  I watch the children run up and down the road screaming, laughing, and having fun.  I’ll get a grip on the wall and push hard, rolling my chair across the room until it stops abruptly on the other wall.

I do this for awhile.

I always feel so accomplished when I finish a chapter.  Especially if the chapter has given me a tiny headache.  When I finished chapter twelve I was so excited because that means I was going to start chapter thirteen.  As I pulled up word to begin chapter thirteen I got discouraged and aggravated.  That would be the moment I wish I could wiggle my nose &&& the words just appear on the paper.  Yes.  I know it doesn’t work like that.  But it would be nice.

As I sit here I have wrote maybe three or four pages into chapter thirteen.  Just staring at that blank chapter is a moment where you just think ‘ugh!  Never going to finish!’

I eventually roll myself away from my desk and into the living room, abandoning my rolling chair and removing myself to stare at some shitcom playing on one of the six channels I receive in my living room.  I sit on my lovely couch & think that only a few minutes of television then I will go write some more.  (Just fyi: at the point, I haven’t wrote a single word.)

Fifteen hours later I awake in a puddle of drool and crusted over eyes & realize somewhere I fell asleep and it’s now tomorrow.  At this point, it’s still dark outside and I decide that if I go to sleep, in my bed right now, I will wake up at a decent time.

But first, I’m hungry.

After rummaging through my kitchen, I shovel the food in, yes, using a shovel, my mouth before I proceed to go to bed way too full.  In the middle of the night I wake up with heartburn so bad I have to vomit back up all of the food I decided to shovel into my face, half of which falls out of my bra and onto the bathroom floor.

Sweaty and weak I take myself back to bed where I doze off again.  49 hours later, I awake with a headache so bad I can’t open my eyes or move my legs.  (How that works, I’m not sure.)  I wake up in just enough time to go back to sleep so I can get a little sleep before going back to work.

I work three days, twelve hours a day – that’s it.  Then on Tuesday I repeat everything I did the previous week.

I’m mostly joking.  Expect for the truth in there.  I will leave it to you to decide what is true.