Mary Anne wrote this, but it’s exactly how I feel right now:
Periodically I have conversations which go like this:
“So what do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Gosh, I always wanted to be a writer. But I wouldn’t have the discipline to actually write anything. How do you do it?”
“I don’t know. I just go to the cafe, open up my laptop, and start writing.”
And sometimes it’s like that. It is. But then there are the weeks like this week, where every single morning I’ve woken up planning to write, and I get through every day without writing anything at all. Except in this journal, I suppose, which doesn’t count. I don’t even manage to open the file I’m supposed to be working on.
I go through my day, doing errands, filing things, getting more and more irritated with myself, feeling an irrational anxiety build that makes it even more difficult to open up the file and start writing. A sense of ‘after all this build-up, I’d better write something really good.’ Which is ridiculous. And yet here I am, not writing. Argh.
Yes, argh.
Of course, the irony here is that I can’t even write about my frustration with my lack of writing-- I have to borrow someone else’s words.
I’m adjusting to some schedule changes that seem to have completely thrown me off course. I’ll get settled into a new routine and things will turn around soon, they always do. Until then, what Mary Anne said.
at 04:39 PM 
What’s it all about?
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