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It is something we are all guilty of. And recently something that I have been incredibly guilty of. My schedule is incredibly rigorous constantly pushing me to new extremes of exhaustion.
I constantly have six separate titles that I am working on. One for every day of the week and then an editing day which rotates between the six. Every day I write a minimum of two thousand words, even if I know it isn't something I will like the next time I go to work on that project I get a wonderful feel of accomplishment to reach this daily goal.
After six months of this schedule I found myself becoming less and less inspired to reach that many words in one day, so I gave myself a new challenge. If I can make it to three thousand words I won't have to clean my room that day. If I can make it to four thousand words I can buy myself a new book (and I really, really enjoy new books). ECT. ECT.
These guidelines I have set for myself are incredible and I am so glad that I adhere to my schedule. But recently I haven't wanted to. On top of my creative writing I work two incredible jobs that just love to keep me busy. I have one full day off a week and a few partials. This doesn't allot much time for my writing, LET ALONE the things that keep me sane. Like Skyping my cousin Morgan, showering, eating, breathing, reading, tumblr.
Enters the procrastination. Last week for the first time in a year since I started my writing regimen I did not write one single word for a story. I told myself a lie I am sure many others tell themselves, " I will do it tomorrow."
And maybe you do! And that would be great, but that is not how it went down in my story. Instead I kept pushing off my writing and suddenly an entire week had gone by.
I spent my week working, and in my few spare moments I went to the lake. My eyes and skin screamed at me for days saying they much prefer my room in the dungeon (okay so I live in the basement, but where is the fun in that word?) of the house.
I slept some and had some crazy borderline psychotic dreams that I am sure are the result of repressing my imagination for an entire week. Maybe I am a masochist? Because that surely seems like self induced torture to me. AND I DIDN'T EVEN REALIZE WHAT I WAS DOING TO MYSELF.
It suddenly clicked in my head that writing wasn't a job that I felt obligated to do. It is something my mind and health REQUIRES me to do every day. Or I might just go crazy. Or maybe I already have? That is up for debate I think.
Now I have become one with my inner cave woman needs to realize that my priorities are in no particular order, as follows : sleep, skyping with my lovely spectacular cousin Morgan, eating, showering, breathing, tumblr, reading and WRITING.
When I realized how off not writing made me feel I made a major decision. On my next birthday I am retire from working my two jobs. I will write full time and most likely be a slightly saner human being.
This will be a huge change in my lifestyle, and I am already pumped to possibly triple my daily word counts! I will spend my days happily inside my house, most likely curled up in my bed with my most beloved Tiberius (my laptop, and yes he is named after James Tiberius Kirk....) writing and reading and reviewing books! Maybe even growing a beard in the process! ;)
So I suppose if someone suffered through this post of mine they will have come to the same conclusion that I have, sometimes procrastination station is the place to be.