I went to sleep Sunday night and awoke Monday morning to find it was still Sunday. At least, it felt that way to me.
When I awoke Tuesday morning, it still felt like Sunday, until I’d realized I’d had to work. It’s now 4:23am on Wednesday morning and as I kissed the wife and wished her a safe trip to work, I thought ahead to an afternoon full of yard work and dishes and the sort of thing one associates with Sunday afternoons.
I’m beginning to think I’ve fallen into some sort of mental time loop, in which I will forever feel as though it’s Sunday, even though it’s Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday.
I’m not sure it’s such a curse at all, actually.
With Monday being our anniversary, and Tuesday turning out to be the sort of day in which one spends the better part of an afternoon organizing the cooler of a convenience store, I’ve gotten very little writing done over the past two days. Thus, I find myself befallen to one of the single worst trappings a writer can find him or herself in; excuses.
I’m too tired.
I’ve no time.
I don’t feel well.
These are all common things to be said by a writer who has begun a novel. Granted, the only thing I thought of on Monday was the wife, and Tuesday found me to be both exhausted and sore, but I still should have made some time to write.
And I am ashamed.
Even though today’s schedule will be one full of cleaning house, yard work and important phonecalls, I will make time to write. A thousand words a day has proven to be a bit more difficult, given my schedule, than I had originally anticipated, but I will make every attempt I can.
No more excuses.