Today is a “work” day with writing. I am in some serious need of motivation, since I have three legal posts to write for law firms. They aren’t very long, and if I just get into them, they will be done and I can do other things. I get the logic of this. But I’m the guy who eats the brownie first in the Hungry Man meal. I know I’m not supposed to do that. I don’t need a lecture. Believe me that I lecture myself more than anyone ever has.
I could have done them yesterday, but I didn’t. Today is the deadline in just nine hours. Wow, am I fighting it. Last night, being a Friday night, I decided instead to work on the book. It’s kind of nice when writing a book is the dessert you want and not the fat and flour you have to choke down. I feel this story coming together in so many good (albeit painful) ways. The story itself is pretty hard to take sometimes.
But when I’m done writing it, I usually feel cathartic.
I hope one day it helps someone else. I don’t know if it will ever see the light of day. If it does, I might publish under a pen name, so you might not even know it from here. Which kinda sucks, since who doesn’t want to see their name on a bookshelf? It’s all very close and personal and jeez, sometimes you get a taste for that sort of self-reflection/exploitation. Not that you really want people walking down the street to say they know your deep and dark secrets. Another reason writers are pretty lonely creatures.
So, today (at least until I get them done) I write content for law firms about estate planning.
Cue puke emoji.
When what I really want to be doing is assembling a work of art.
Who knows, I could be fooling myself and the story could be as interesting as a grocery list. Yet I cannot see past the testament of my own vanity.
Wendigo Mountain 