These past few days I've spent holed up in Chris & Steph's apartment as they're on vacation.
My aim was to get some real writing done, to finish several projects that I've just been blankly staring at, lock myself in a room until I emerge triumphant and all that. Whenever I have these lofty goals, real problems start to arise.
For one, when I spend a lot of time writing, I begin to ask myself: "Who are you kidding? What are you playing at?" Because it feels like I'm pretending to be a writer sometimes, but instead I'm just sitting on the floor going through huge mugs of black tea and jars of Nutella, and saying things like "plot holes" as if they mean something.
For the blessed moments where I forget about myself completely - it's good.
Little things spur me on, like the artist I had just met and she asked if I was an artist as well.
When I said no, she responded with: "You're a writer," and nodded her head.
She knew. I wanted to hug her and ask her how she knew.
Anyhow. I've thrown the Nutella across the room so that my laziness will override my need for hazelnut, sugary goodness. I've refilled my mug. Turned Kim Janssen back on. Ready for another round. Cheers.
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