Getting Random Sh!t Off My Mind

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? 21^st 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.