I’m late! I’m late! For a very important date!

No time to say hello good-bye I’m late!

     I feel like this a lot, like Alice’s White Rabbit with his huge ticking pocket watch forever running to the Queen’s croquet match. I’m not talking about being late for work because I am often late-ish. Because I don’t really like my job my passive aggressive defense is to be a little later than other people. I get everything turned in on time, I get to all my meetings, but…late-r.

     When I look at what I do all day compared to what I want to happen in my day, I panic. My day is equal parts day job and sleep (there goes 16 hours), hygiene (two, including trips to the loo), eating (2 hours), travel to and from work (1 hour), entertainment/writing/exercise/friends/Husband time (five hours).  

     Come to think of it, if the day job went away, I’d be fine, because I want that 8 hours for writing of any kind. Damn you day job and your siren song of health benefits and a steady paycheck, lest I be dashed against the cliffs of the bad economy!

     I feel like I’m running out of time to do stuff I want to do. Like write a lot and go places and do stuff. I can’t even think of what it is I want to do! That’s how restless and unfocused I can be.

     I get home from work and if I’m lucky I have a couple of hours to do as I please. Here’s about what happens:

    I tell Husband “I’m going to be a writer now” which is code for “leave me alone and close the doors because I can hear you talking to your internet friends in that game with the purple trees where you look like an elf.”

     I sit down.

    I open WordPress.

    I open the story I’m working on.

    I write some on both, or one, then erase and look at Facebook.

    I think I should read some Neil Gaiman.

    I realize I have a ton of books to read including a new Neil Gaiman and a bunch more that I bet would help me write now if I had only read them. Maybe I should read them now, but I can’t read four books at once, so I end up cruising through a few pages of each.

   I look at Neil Gaiman’s blog.

    I write a page or so in the story, think it’s crap, eat some cookies, and go read Jane Austen in bed.

    I need to hire a hit man to knock off my internal editor and a personal trainer for writing.


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