Many of you have complained that I don’t write enough. First of all, in my defense, it’s kind of hard to write from inside my purple comforter that I’ve been rolled up in like a taquito ever since arctic air began chilling my actual bones. This is what we have going on today:
Or, according to my friend Paula, it’s Baby, It’s HOLY MOTHER OF GOD I NEED MORE LAYERS Outside. Her area is far more frigid though, so I shouldn’t even be talking (which isn’t a reference to her lacking any sort of sexual responsiveness, as she seems to have no problems there. But I’m not calling her a hobeast or anything, either! Well, maybe a little bit. Would you just read her blog already? Jeez).
The second reason I haven’t been around is that my boyfriend moved in and suddenly I do weird things, such as go on dates instead of writing alone while drinking wine from a bag.
The third reason, which sucks to admit, is sheer anxiety masked by busy work. As you may recall, there’s supposed to be a book in the works, but every other day is spent worrying that you will hate it, so I withdrawal and claim something important is going on and the idea isn’t revisited until about 2 weeks later. It’s a vicious cycle. Sometimes I even choose exercise over writing just so I don’t have to do it. Can you believe it?
Embarrassingly, I’m writing this post right now for the very same reason.
The weird thing is that the stories in the book thoroughly delighted others, and that is the ultimate goal, so I don’t know what my problem is. I’m stuck, people. I’m stuck and I’m a wuss and it’s time to admit it.
So…that’s it. There it is. Judge me as you will (although I would prefer some encouragement or advice).