All of my recent efforts to write have resulted in such effective and imaginative methods of procrastination as to nearly put my school efforts at the sport of avoiding work to shame. In my attempt to write stuff down, All these words rattle around my head clamouring to get out, fighting and tripping over each other for dominance, and yet when I try to open the door to coax some of them through they all flee to the farthest, darkest reaches of my brain. That or else they all rush the door all at once, thereby getting stuck on the threshold as they vie for dominance of what idea will make it out first. Hard to tell which scenario is more accurate but the end result is the same: I have managed to get a lot of things done on the computer lately under the guise of “starting to write” only none of those things have been actually writing.
It is clear then that two choices lie before me. One is to just give up the endeavour altogether. It’s an easy and tempting route. Zero effort required. Some feelings of guilt will no doubt mingle with the relief of having simply given in to the feeling of the inevitable. It’s like the self-fulfilling prophecy where you worry so much about failing in your goal that you are actually relieved when you do fail and acknowledge it, leaving you free to move on to the next thing, which will hopefully be more successful. Maybe. Possibly?
Ok, maybe not the happiest choice, but it’s an easy one, and sometimes easy is good. Right? Only… I have this strange talent where I try to make something easy and accidentally arse it up so much that it becomes a massively complicated and convoluted job. Which brings me to the second choice: try some sort of a desperate writing challenge to inspire me once again. I mean, it’s an utterly preposterous proposal, right? The last, busiest, month of the year – full of work stress, gift buying stress, plan-making stress, evening engagements and obligations, work parties, child Christmas concerts, annual leave arrangements. No one in their right mind would add to that burden the idea of doing something else daily that has already proven to be such a troublesome challenge. Right? RIGHT?
Clearly, I am mentally deranged, or at least deficient in common sense, for I have been thinking for some time now that perhaps a 30-day writing challenge is exactly what I need to serve as a kick up the arse to start writing again. Some sane, rational part of my brain was suggesting doing this in the new year, but then there I was on my bike yesterday, relishing the crisp, cold air rushing past my face and burning my lungs during my morning commute, when a thought popped into my head. I should just do my 30 days of writing right now, from the start of December! This is brilliant. I shall say this to The Mister as soon as I can so that I can commit myself. What a way to finish out the year!
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have decided to try and blog daily once again, for thirty days. Like literary advent. With less chocolate.
Oh who am I kidding. It will take a lot of tea and chocolate to get through this. And cookies. If there’s any biscuit remaining in the house to leave on the mantle for Santa by the time I get to day 24 I’ll be well impressed.
See you folks tomorrow!