I admit it. I've been avoiding my WIP like it's a piece of stinky cheese. Like it's a lamp I don't want to dust, or a phone call I don't want to make.
Like I'm a busy person who chooses to spend her downtime doing less productive things, continually shrugging off the needy manuscript.
But also because I allow myself to be overwhelmed. I become stunted by the fact that I need another 50- or 60,000 words, instead of considering I've already succeeded with 20,000. Because the voice of doubt and negativity rumbles loud and long.
Because if I don't work hard, I don't risk rejection and failure of grand proportion.
Sometimes it's easier just to play around online. Or to put an hour's time and thought into a great blog post. And avoid my writing by visiting others to talk about writing.
It's a phase. It's a mood. I have them often. It's part of this way my brain is wired, part of my undisciplined nature. It's part of my struggle.
But it's like a reverse psychology thing. I start to feel guilty, undeserving, untalented. And then it's like I have something to prove. And I write again.
I kicked almost 1000 words out yesterday, and it felt good. I told myself this is all I need. To focus on one scene, one section at a time, consistently. To work toward smaller goals that, in turn, grow one large one.
And that's all I can do, right? It's all any of us can do?