This year I received an over-the-top generous gift for my birthday: tuition to a writing class. Last Wednesday, I learned that I have a short story due on the 30th and another due on November 13th. Wonderful. This is exactly the quota I had for myself.
My plan was to have draft one of the first story done before this Wednesday. It’s a piece I’ve been outlining and researching since August, so that’s really doable.
Saturday before I opened the story doc, I finished naming my characters and spent time mimicking someone else’s adorable spaceman drawing. I named him, too. Major Tom, which is completely unoriginal, I know; but he’s just for fun. No need to get hypercritical of myself during creative playtime.
Then yesterday the shelves of the fridge came out for a scrubbing. They didn’t hop out on their own. See, I was pouring a glass of water, on my way upstairs to write when the urge to deep clean hit. Hand wash in warm water is what the embossed plastic instructed, and I obliged.
“Why are you cleaning the fridge?” Andy asked.
This is very common, I know. Nothing to be alarmed about.
But next I did a pencil rubbing of the refrigerator shelf before I put it back in.
What am I avoiding? And why doesn’t ink work for pencil rubbings?
Today is a major writing day. I had a full pot of coffee at IHOP and got a few options down for my opening paragraph. After returning home, still enjoying the morningness of the day, I began to feel bothered that the blog hadn’t been updated in nearly a week.
I told myself I’d whip up something quickly before going back to the story, but once I got to writing about the spaceman, I needed to open up Photoshop to blur some of the words in the picture. And then the rubber stamp tool began to call out to me.
And now it’s 2:14. And I’m feeling pretty bad about myself. Still a couple hours to write before my late afternoon appointment. I’ll make them count. Nothing will get cleaned or drawn or photographed. I promise.