Spring arrives early here. That is to say, it lets you think it’s arriving early. But, it’s tricksy. Oh, yes. It’s tricksy.
can spring be very far away?
It likes to see buds forming on the irises, and then, just when they’re getting ready to open up, SURPRISE, here comes a late blast of icy cold mountain air. The poor things shrivel and hang their heads.
Writers are like those irises, vulnerable to cold blasts of discouragement and thinly-veiled put downs. Self-doubt, unlike spring, is never very far away.
Wrap up warm. Keep on your comfy, confidence cardie. Smile. Doubt hates smilers; he doesn’t know what to do with them and usually takes his leave. Take a break from your usual routine. Do something physical. Physical activity guards against writers’ arse and I do believe there’s a lot to be said for the old chestnut – blowing away the cobwebs.
Take a good look at the people you mix with. How do they make you feel? Do they drain you, or do they make you feel uplifted?
you have to be brave
Himself is a master. Black belt, hard core procrastinator. Himself can look at a job that needs doing and pick up the phone to speak to his brother instead. Then they talk for at least half an hour about the job that needs doing.
don’t rob yourself
To be fair, herself is probably almost a brown belt. But, you see, it all depends on the job it is that needs doing. Ironing or go for a swim? No contest. Clean the toilet or sit outside with a clinky drink? Are you kidding? Writing or anything you might care to name? Writing, writing, writing.
If I’m not writing, I’m thinking about it. There’s not much that I will allow to get in the way of my writing. Selfish? Absolutely. Nobody’s starving around here. Everybody eventually has ironed clothes to wear. I’ve done my years of earning a living doing things I had to do to meet the targets, to keep the funding, to satisfy the consumers etc. etc.
Thing is, see, the minute I move away from the keyboard to prepare that lunch or slice those vegetables, guess who jumps in the chair the second it becomes vacant? Himself, of course. He’s Facebooking or he’s looking up properties for sale or comparing prices on remote-controlled horizontal deadbolts. (I made that last one up)
I have to hang onto my seat. Literally. Even if it means I’m developing writer’s arse. To himself, my keyboard is a displacement activity, whereas, to a writer like me, well, you know the rest.