Laziness set in quickly. Â Then, boredom. Â Then, I got yelled at by my wife. Â And now I’m trying harder.
That sounds much harsher on my wife then it should. Â She didn’t “yell” at me, per say, as much as read an essay by George Orwell (Politics and the English Language) about the downfall of writing and excerpts from a book about one writer’s schedule. Â There was no raising of voices or angry eyebrows, just pointing out something that I cleverly ignored.
Snuck away, is a better way to say that [annoying double 'way'] as I’m sure, at some point I read books or articles or essays by writers about their work schedule. Â In fact, I know I’ve read Stephen King’s On Writing – or some of it – and remember a scene about his mother…so, I didn’t read all of it. Â The point is, these things are important to the life of a guy that will be working at home. Â A guy that will take ideas and pictures and words from his head and mash them together onto a page, hoping they’ll form something coherent enough to be readable. Â And that’s what I’m aiming for.
So, I wrote out a schedule and planned on sticking to it.
Thursday worked out pretty well and Friday even better as I forced myself to do writing exercises followed by plotting and editing and research, and then getting as much actual writing as I could at a coffee shop. Â It seemed like a good plan, and it was, like I said, for those first two days. Â Problem was, the weekend happened. Â Laziness found its way back into the schedule and I’m sitting here, in bed and in my pajamas, having written or thought about nothing. Â It’s shameful most of all. Â And not just because my wife will get home from teaching erratic and painfully energetic children English and be disappointed, because she would have read this by then, but because I’m annoyed with myself.
I need this to work out. Â It can’t be a fly-by-night operation of inconsistent workloads and a “flexible” schedule that lends itself to hours of ‘Friday Night Lights’ watching. Â No, no, good readers. Â This needs to be a well oiled machine. Â I have two books to write. Â One of which needs to be complete by the end of the summer, and that includes art. Â It means a script mostly written and a chapter drawn, inked, colored, and lettered so we can present said pieces to publishers in hopes of getting published. Â And that’s something that can happen…if I can kick my ass more often.
I already know the plan, know the goal, and it’s all execution from now on. Â Execution of work and not self – even if I am a sad sack because nothing has been completed today. Â I’m off to do that. Â On this cold, December day. Â Where the temperature wavers but the blankets on the bed keep my legs and hips at a constant temperature…damn you, Stupid.
Off to get started.