I plopped my ass into a chair and just got this sucker done today. As much fun as it is, I simply cannot afford to whine any longer. This is a job. True, it is a job I love, but it is a job nonetheless. When I'm working on my articles-- my non-fiction work-- there is simply no way I can complain about writer's block or lack of inspiration or motivation or whatever. I have to get it done. I have deadlines, I have bills, and I have to meet them come hell or high water.
So why can't I do the same with this?
And the reason, while not pleasant, is simple: because I can. Because there's no one holding a sword up to my head and saying that you have to get it done. Because I don't lose income, my reputation, or my dependability for editors. And since those variables aren't involved and there's much less at stake, I give myself a pass. Oh, it's fiction, it's memoir, I say. No one's paying me for it. I can't do it. It's too hard. It's not like journalism. I'm already good at journalism.
What bollocks.
Yes, there's no one paying me to do this (yet), but if I've decided to do it, I should just go ahead and do it, right? You would think it would be that simple.
I know it isn't all that simple, but it doesn't have to be a mountain of work either. I've found that I can easily crank out 500 to 1,000 words in an hour, even if they're crap. So why not just sit down and do it?
That is the plan with this book. No more excuses. No more waiting. It doesn't matter how difficult it is. It's a new challenge. And I'm more than willing to take it up.
I am writer. Watch me roar!
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