It’s not the easiest to write consistently. I feel
like I spend more time procrastinating/complaining about writing/watching
YouTube videos than actually writing. Sigh.
The Dreambinder should be twice as long
as it actually is now. I should have something
to show for myself. I have a new Murloc Shaman portrait in Hearthstone,
does that count?
My point is, it seems that this whole
“being a writer” business is more like “being a guilt-ridden procrastinator who
can only be forced to work by applying unhealthy amounts of shame to her ego.”
Let’s stick with “being a writer.” It’s more succinct.
The
Next Big Idea is my Shakespeare Sock Puppets, who reenact Shakespeare’s plays
with all the sugar-fueled finesse of a crafty six year old (basically, who I am
in my deep heart’s core.) Now, if only I had the self-control to sit down and write the damn script, everything would
be fine.
But
I’m easily distracted by shiny objects. At the moment, the object in question
is the new book in the Red London series by V. E. Schwab. I read the first book
on my parents’ couch last summer—it’s the same couch that was there when they
bought the house 20 years ago, and I’m pretty sure my mom’s water broke all
over that couch when she had me. It’s been through so many slipcovers and
refurbishments, I’ve lost track. Still, my parents, staunch in their
thriftiness as Depression-era residents of the Dust Bowl, refuse to replace the
couch with something more . . . new? Comfortable? 21st century?
Seriously, even the latest iteration of the slipcover is so early 2000’s. Kind of like those polo shirts and denim skorts I
wore to my tiny Catholic school on dress down days. Yeah, it’s best that those
remain in the Oughts, along with the aforementioned slipcover.
