Today was tough. I woke up early and sat down at the computer. I twiddled my thumbs. I decided to eat breakfast. I wrote about 100 words. I felt that awful heaviness in my stomach. Writer’s block, wedged somewhere in the vicinity of my solar plexus. I scowled. I did the laundry, angrily. I complained to the internet. I watched Monday’s episode of All My Children while I did yet more laundry. I complained to my novel that it just isn’t being as funny and carefree as I would like it to be. I took down some of the Halloween decor. I edited photos. I shot my daily self portrait (above). I edited that. I buckled down and wrote 1, 148 words, jumping ahead of where I wanted my plot to be a little bit. My main character has already lived as the private nurse to an eccentric old man for a month and very, very little has happened. I reminded myself that my novel is plotless, pointless, and boring and it’s still a gazillion times better than my last one. It’s no better than it should be, and also no worse. I have no worries about the quality, I have mastered the quantity, my inner editor is on vacation, but I still hate writing every day. I don’t know why. It just makes me feel angry and frustrated, and I am not an angry person at all. Once I get down to it, I only have to write about an hour a day and I well exceed my daily requirements.

I think… it’s entirely possible… that I am really, really, incredibly lazy.

8861 / 50000 words. 18% done!