I’m sure I shouldn’t be up this late
I’m supposed to be writing, otherwise there’s no point for me to still be awake. There’s a warm bed and a warm body waiting for me on the other side of the closed door a few feet to my right. My punishment for ignoring it is the cold twisting through my body. My fingers keep skipping across the wrong keys and I have to backtrack to get the words right, but 12:22 doesn’t seem so late really. I remember when it was nothing to stay up until 3 am reading a good book or writing. Those days are probably gone forever now that I have kids who think 6 am is late.
I’ve been listening to music with my headphones while I work, but I’m not writing. Sometimes the words just won’t come. And sometimes the words are there, but I find ways to stave them off. I often wonder if this means I don’t really want to spend my life writing stories I can’t be sure anyone will ever read.
Only my critique partner sees them, but I’ve kept this latest story close. She’s seen only a few chapters here and there.
I’m supposed to be heading downhill. I’m past the 3/4 mark, and I’ve finally concluded there’s no such thing as going downhill when it comes to writing.
From the first word to the last, it’s like pulling my own fingernails out. And yet… I can’t imagine my life if I were to stop. Even if someday I gave up the quest for publication, I would write something. For such a terrible, torturous thing, writing gives me some of my favorite moments.
There’s nothing like laughing out loud as I read something I wrote. And when I cry as I type, I know it means something. My writing is better for it, even if my computer isn’t.
I’ve never actually spit anything out on my keyboard while reading my own material, but I’ve often wondered if that rush of joy wouldn’t be worth it. I hesitate to say a laugh could ever be worth $1,282 but part of me wants to say just that.
I really think I need to find a new CD.
Although, getting some sleep might be the better answer.
Blogging - the better way to putz
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