I should be working on my book. I should be hunkered down, nose to the grindstone, making words work. Should be.
I’m sipping my second cup of coffee, sending the occasional text, and enjoying a quiet morning. Negotiating with myself. I deserve a morning where I don’t think about it. But there it is, always hanging around. My story.
I spend a lot of time waiting for my muse. Waiting for inspiration. Waiting, instead of writing.
So I’ll barter and reward myself with thirty minutes more of a lazy summer morning, turn my phone off, and I’ll write.
It’s what I do now.
I dawdle. Procrastinate. I waste time.
I don’t mean to, it just happens. One minute I’m clicking away on the keyboard, making word counts and kicking sentence ass. Then, I second guess a sentence.
Next thing I know, I am googling Victorian etiquette.
An hour later I’ve saved a dozen pins on Pinterest, looked at hundreds of examples of corpse photography, and taken an extended coffee break.
Yelled at my kid.
Fed the dogs.
But I’ve only written six sentences. Six. Three of which are incomprehensible.
At least it’s only noon…
I’m 12,000 words in. I have a story. Okay, I have a messy, jumbled cacophony of words and images that will become a story. One day.
If I can make it through the research. If I can add one more post- it note to the wall of sticky pastel nightmares. If I can figure out that one thing that is keeping all the pieces from tumbling together and clicking into place. Because then, I can focus on that other thing that isn’t quite right. And if I can find that one scrap of paper, well – I’m sure I scribbled something crucial, I just can’t remember what it was.