... to work, that is.
I've been off air for a while. There are many reasons (aren't there always?) - I've been busy with the writing (yay!), even busier with the kids, but this last week I've been busy being sick. Head stuffed with cotton wool then set on fire, sick. Stuck on the couch, feeding the preschooler salt & vinegar rice crackers and Barbie DVDs to keep her off my case, sick.
I'm marginally better today. And, somewhat miraculously for a Saturday, I found myself alone in the house for one whole hour. I did not feel like writing. Not one little bit. I have some great books sitting on my TBR pile, including an excellent beta read I'm part way through (but that's another (really good!) story). Suffice to say, the couch and the books were beckoning. But then the guilts got me. Here I was, with time to write in a quiet house, the very thing I always bitch about NOT having - what kind of hypocrite would I be if I didn't make the most of it?
So I sat down. Typed a paragraph. It sucked. Deleted it. Started again. Still not happy with the para but moved on. And, to my amazement, it all began to flow. I cranked out 1100 words in that hour, not all of them bad. Got my protagonist in the face of my antagonist, with a pistol and a few nifty manouvres with the drapes involved.
It was a lesson I've had before, but needed to learn again.
Just. Bloody. Write.
No matter how many excuses there are not to, just do it. You just might surprise yourself.
I know I did.