I should be working on my novel.
That's something that I think, almost every second of every day. It consumes me, whether I'm at work or at home or driving in the car, I know it's something that I should be doing instead.
I guess that would make it an obsession, but it's not. I owe to my characters to tell their story, to finish what I started ten years ago in a lonely Harry Potter notebook. I owe it them to etch out the twists and turns of their lives, to give the justice.
I've come to the conclusion that all writers are crazy, in a way. We have people in our heads telling us what to do and to say and how they're living their lives. No one else can see them, no one else can experience them without us setting them free. It's like a sickness. Creativity is a sickness.
This week's Writing Excuses was about that, and the fact that the majority of writers are sick, in someway, writing and mental illness. If you don't subscribe to this podcast, you should. Brandon, Dan, Howard, and Mary have become some of the voices in my head, urging me to just keep writing: butt in chair, hands on keyboard.
But that's hard to do when my one year old insists on being thrown in the air and played with and fed. That's hard to do when my laundry and dishes need to be done and my floor needs to be vacuumed and my walls need to be painted. That's hard to do when I'd much rather have Mad Men marathon, or fall in love with Ten all over again, or read Game of Thrones.
I have more excuses than I have words to put into my novel. I have always been good at excuses. But the time for excuses is over, and it's time to finish my novel, even if it sucks, even if it hurts, even if I have other things to do.
Here endeth the post, because I should be working on my novel.