It's almost 1:00 (a.m.) and I'm still here, curled in my easy chair, the Dell Inspiron serving as my own personal heater, with assistance from Magic who has managed to insinuate himself in the corner of the chair beside me. What am I doing, still awake in the wee hours of the morning?
Earlier tonight, while sitting in a dark high school auditorium, struggling to stay awake through a (fairly competent) production of Arsenic and Old Lace, I realized (with a mixure of horror and resignation) that I had managed to let myself get about 2000 words behind on my novel.
How did this happen?
This has been a week where the s&*t has hit the fan, as they say. Meaning that those occasions when people have said "could you? would you?" every so nicely, and I have replied "I can, I will," every so foolishly, have all come home to roost.
I am crushed, dear reader.
Overloaded.
So tonight, as I was driving home in the cold and dark, still struggling to stay awake, I thought to myself - okay, you're done. Why are you putting yourself through this novel writing nonsense, adding this extra burden on an already overloaded schedule? Nobody's making you write this novel - it doesn't matter in the slightest to anyone whether you finish it now, or next August, or the 12th of Never.
Wrong.
It matters to me. And that's why I'm still up. I've been writing.
Because all that other stuff - the extra work I've been doing to help my boss, the bell concerts I'm playing to sub for a friend, the visiting, the shopping, the chores - those are all for other people. And we all know how much I abhor letting people down.
The writing -well, sure, it's just for me. But why should I be any more inclined to let myself down than I would all these other people I'm always so willing to open a vein for?
Anyway, I'm caught up on my word count - at least until tomorrow (which is actually already today, isn't it?)
But I will keep writing.
After all, I wouldn't want to disappoint myself.