After running around like crazy all day yesterday I seem to be, if not caught up with business and domestic responsibilities, at least a little less swamped by them.
So there really aren't any excuses for not writing today. I haven't written in two weeks, and though the excuses are plentiful and awfully good, I still feel kind of cruddy about it. As I should. But this backstory stuff is killing me. I'm pretty sure it'll be relatively smooth sailing once I'm through it.
But who knows? I have no idea where my old, famous work ethic went. It said it was going out for a pack of cigarettes sometime around the summer of 1998 and it never came back. I've been very lazy ever since.
Since the impulse to work is no longer coarsing through my veins like so many diligent corpuscles, I must create the desire artificially by doing things like imagining my enemies beside themselves with envy and teeming with hostility when I complete, sell and publish the book, or by pretending that every time I finish a page a Communist dies - stuff like that.
So far so good, though I'm still working in spurts, which is a lousy way to work. But I don't think I'll ever be one of those sit down in front of the computer for two hours a day kind of guys. Or worse, one of those page-a-day dingbats. Sure, I could force myself to write a page a day. A page a day of crap. I'd be better off catching up with Passions. So I'll just have to work with what I've got. And anyway, it's coming out pretty good, so what the hell.