It’s possible that I’m a wee bit annoyed at myself. It’s possible that this whole writing thing I keep telling myself is my career of choice is actually rather difficult when I sit down to do it. Part of the trouble with perfectionism is not just that everything I do must be perfect, but it must be relatively easy, too. Otherwise, it will simply take too much time to perform properly, so why continue to struggle at something that may never be perfect? It’s so much fun, that cycle of destruction.
A webcomic I particularly enjoy (it appeals to the pubescent boy in me) is Least I Could Do. One of the comics shows that Rayne, the hyper-sexual Jack Russel terrier of a bachelor, misunderstood the adage “it’s like riding a bicycle,” and to prove that his interpretation was not only possible but correct, he had sex with a bicycle. (I guess you kind of have to know the comic a bit.)
Anyway, even though writing is a bit like &$^#ing a bicycle (in that you never forget how to do it, and also in the way that it’s tricky as hell and you might end up with tetanus or at least some sort of nasty oozing issue later on), I still seem to think that it should be easy. No one ever said $&*@ing a bike would be easy, only that once you figure it out, you’ve figured it out. And here I am, chastising myself for being unable to do a marathon after keeping the stupid thing in the garage for too many months to count.
I suppose I should focus on the fact that I have, finally, pulled it out of the garage, dusted it off, and am attempting the marathon regardless of my current fitness level. No wonder I have so many problems. You’re supposed to train for marathons, right? Maybe I should have warmed up with Blogtober or something. Humph.
Well, we’ll try this widget on for size. Yesterday’s count was:
I’m unfortunately not even halfway finished with today’s word count, so I guess I had better get crackin’. I’m thinking some hot cider will help.