Day Twenty-Eight: Distractions

Ok! Finished up chapter nine today and started 10. I’m very excited. We’re getting to the good stuff now. I’m not a particularly tense or mysterious writer though, so it’s hard to write these slightly mysterious, more mystical bits. Hard, but still, things are starting to get good.

That being said, as much as I’d like to devote my every waking moment to my writing, I keep getting all these really stupid distractions. My old landlord went anal-retentive on me today so I had to spend the bulk of my day writing her an email while resisting the urge to call her a delusional lunatic. It was almost a writing practice (in which the narrotor was a much nicer person than I am) in and of itself, and this time there’s money on the line.

Also, yay. Everything else is getting crazy. Get to entangle myself in the widow’s web that is our modern healthcare system (who doesn’t want to spend two hours on the phone with a nurse and their insurance company!). I’m also getting down to deadline here on painting my apartment, as I’d promised. Hooray.

It’s not the menial tasks that have me down. Everyone has to do these things. I’m getting dysfunctional… I can’t even manage to pull myself away long enough to go to the grocery store (I’m living off a dwindling pizza my stepmother insisted I take with me). I don’t want to do anything all day. I just want to write.

When I first started this project, I put a lot of time into reading the advice of other writers. I read a woman who explained at length how important it was, as a full-time writer, to make sure you take nights and weekend as free-time and not writing time. This was baffling to me. Before now, my only writing time was my free-time, stolen moments in a coffee shop.

But now that I’m getting going, I’m seeing why she’d give such a tip. I see it, but I can’t stop myself. I want to wake up every morning and write. I spend all day turning my story over in my head. In fact, I’ve developed an intolerance for days when I don’t get to. I can’t spare the wasted thoughts on things like schedules and dates. When did my work become my vacation and my vacation become so difficult?

I want to spend every day in my writing. I love this world. I created it. It’s so malleable and sensical. It’s way better than my real life. Writing has always been a tenuous means of controlling my life for me… and now that I spend so much time in the world of my creation, I’m finding life more and more intolerable.

My real life seems to be spinning out of my control. All I want to do is hide away with my work. I want to run away into my novel (except not really live my novel because I have some horrible things planned for these kids, as most writers do).

I created this vibrant, colorful world. It’s exciting and new and so beyond the realms of reality. It’s fantastical and I love it! But now I’m struggling with the mundanity of the world around me.

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