I’m addicted to having mindless fun without any effort or concern. The more time I spent procrastinating working my novel, the less time I spend facing inadequacy, feeling frustrated, feeling like this is an exercise in futility.
Some people have their work time, then they go home and have leisure time. They watch TV, and spend time with their significant other or their kids, and it doesn’t require much self-discipline. At least not the same focus my novel demands. Sometimes I trick myself into thinking I want that life.
It scares me to have such a big dream — a published novel — and then grow old and have to admit to myself it went nowhere. Maybe because I lacked the ambition, but not because I lacked the time. Maybe because I lacked the talent, or the know-how to sell myself. But I can never say I’ve not had enough time.
I’ve placed the purpose of my days in a story. It might not be any good; it might turn out to be a car wreck. But maybe it’ll convey a message that I’ve always wanted to say to myself, and when I go back and read it in this story, it’ll finally make sense.
That’s my hope. Now I just need the drive to push myself a little more…