The Procrastinaor

There is really not much to report these days. I am exhausted through a combination of staying up too late and writing a lot.

Of course, it's hard not to separate the two. I probably didn't get enough sleep this weekend, though what I was doing was totally worth being underslept for.

But the writing. Oh my god, the writing. I'm close to not being able to read Zoom's blog, I have to say, which pains me dearly. I'm just pushing at the underside of 15,000 and she is figuring she'll make 50,000 tomorrow. Not that I begrudge her those words, but fuck me. Every time I sit down it feels like I am trying to squeeze blood from the stone.

At those points, I think of Haruki Murukami. I can't remember the exact quote, but in What I Talk About When I Talk About Running he talks about his muscles. He talks about telling his muscles, when they complain, "Hey, muscles, this is what we're doing now."

I've taken that into yoga, and it's improbably effective. Takes a few days for them to really listen, but if you're doing something every day, they get the message pretty quick.

The same thing, I'm trying it with the writing, but my writing muscle, instead of acquiescing and just working the way I tell it to work, it gets spastic. It sends me off all over the internet looking at polka dots and wall decals and lining up colour chips.

If you have a few minutes, you should really line up some colour chips. I don't even know how I found that, but it was the most fun I've had today. My score was 11, with 4 errors in a row in the pinks, and the rest in a row in the greens.

Another 1600 words tonight, and I'm at a point where it doesn't matter how tired I am, how wrung out, how sick of my own words and sloppy sentence construction. It's 2500 words a day for the next 2 weeks.