The view from my couch is not inspiring. It’s raining on top of several feet of old snow out there. I dropped off the car for new tires before Rini’s garage opened and walked home in the rain, over ice, falling once. So far today, I’ve revised one page of Book 3, and I can already tell: it’s going to be work this morning. Looking at glamour photos from the Oscars last night is not going to help, nor will going to dig up my stealth supply of chocolate chip oatmeal cookies from the apron drawer. I’m still going to have to work.
In some ways, I was more desperate to write when I could do it only one-handed while breastfeeding, or when I was writing in 25-minute lunch time chunks between classes. Now I have enough time to write. Now writing is all I do, frankly. Normally, I have a sense of gratitude and I grasp clearly that what I do today is part of completing a year-long project, which is further connected to my ability to sell other projects and earn my life writing on the couch. Normally, I love writing, and often it is a total, fascinating joy.
But some days, it’s not. The people in this scene make me tense and fearful, and I don’t want to be with them. I’ll probably make more cuts than additions in the next few hours, and words will come in chunky bits, like they have for this sentence. None of it will be fun or easy. Nevertheless, I’m going to do my revising, all day long. It’s not that I have any special gift for self-discipline. I have a job, and it’s time to get to work.