Kamel accused me of having writer’s block this weekend and I was totally offended. No I do not have writers block thankyouverymuch!! It’s called LAZYNESS, ok? Jeez. It’s just so difficult to start, is all. During the week I am busy, although I know I could make the time, and I have made the time in the past, and then the weekends roll around and is it so hard to just want to lay about, watching movies? It is. It is frustrating and lazy, and leaves me with the feeling that I will never ever be anything other than a person who makes money doing things that she doesn’t actually give a shit about. Sigh.
Writing is hard. Writing is time consuming and it means you have to sit at home or in a coffee shop, inside, thinking and writing and deleting and writing again. And sometimes it fucking sucks. But then when I say I’m a writer and people ask “oh, where can I see your work?” and I have a few responses, non of which are actually findable, I feel a little stab in my throat. A stab that says, “what are you doing here talking to these people? You should be at home, writing!” And so here I am. Stumbling through two short stories, writing on this blog, reading books by Joan Didion. It only took running up several flights of stairs over and over again this morning, moaning about what I need to do yet being incapable of leaving the couch, roasting garbanzo beans and then taking a shower to get me here, seated, in front of two giant open windows overlooking the beautiful sunshiny San Francisco afternoon, computer open and fingers on the keyboard.
I need to work harder, be less pre-occupied, be more self driven and keep reminding myself that their really is a deadline looming, their really is something to write for, to work for, to reach for. A year after finishing grad school and this whole process is still a bitch.