I’m blogging from bed right now, wearing only the lint from my flannel bedsheets.
This morning I woke in one of those slow dramatic thinking modes. Every lazy twist and turn my brain-tunnels took was some exaggerated incredible idea. After awhile, I stopped daydreaming (I’m sure the thought process was very close to dreaming while awake) and focused on one thought in particular: I’m never going to be one of the crazy-prolific writers. The writers you read about because they wrote over a hundred books during their lifetimes. Asimov and Silverberg come to mind in the science fiction realm, but it seems like about one author a week in the writer’s almanac talks about another one. Someone who was driven to write–possessed by their passion for it. I am a slow writer, and as a result should really focus on quality, not the crappy quantity nanowrimo stuff (although that was good because it forced me to write something). Anyways, I haven’t been writing. One of the biggest reasons for taking the new job was so I’d have some time to write on the weekdays. But so far it’s just been party every night. Board games and video games, inviting people over at every opportunity. It doesn’t help any that laura doesn’t work, so when I get home she’s starving for attention almost as badly as the cats do when everyone has been out all day. I don’t mind that, but sometimes I’m exactly the opposite, and I want to hibernate for a while when I get home.
Anyway, point is, write more, game less. (yeah, write.)