Go out and enjoy the weather, part of me says — the fun-loving Part One.
Nope, finish writing the story, Part Two insists — the nagging part. And after you finish, revise the chapter you wrote last week, edit until you wipe your eyes clean, then edit some more. When you’re done, go back to writing the story you’ve been thinking about last month.
Shut up, nag.
But no luck. Part Two wins. Most of the time. For such a subordinate part (two comes after one, didn’t I tell it?), it sure knows how to assert itself.
And while Part One mentions exercise and sunshine, Part Two is rude enough to wake me from my sleep, keep me thinking and visualizing.
Really? Make an appointment.
I give in so easily. It’s not even a matter of making time for writing — not anymore. I steal time from other projects, from chores, even some obligations. Or I simply delay said duties. Because the nag insists in such vigorous fashion.
I so understand Philip Roth:
“The road to hell is paved with works-in-progress.”
And Ray Bradbury:
“I don’t need an alarm clock. My ideas wake me.”
And George Orwell:
“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”
Yikes. … some demon one can neither resist nor understand.
Sounds serious, grave even. If you know a way out, please do share.
Image: Verdé – Original Acrylic on Canvas – Art Deco Painting by Tara H.