How long has it been? I don’t know. It seems like months. It is months? Huh. Actually it seems more like a day. That’s how much I’m enjoying it. It being not writing.
We all know that if I write again it won’t be this summer. That girl is still around and occasionally whispering in my ear. And sometimes I hear other things on TV or radio or even from the women I go to Curves with. And sometimes I write them down. But spending my time reading and watching movies seems to satisfy me right now.
Of course when I read reviews of books on blogs or in print it gives me a pinch. Notice, pinch not punch. I think, oh, sit down and write. And then I forget about it.
I’m beginning to suspect that the lack of discipline idea I wrote about a few posts ago isn’t going to fly. My schedule is too ingrained. I’m not going to be able to start at 11 or 1. That’s not me. If I start writing I’m sure I’ll go back to the schedule I’ve been on for 50 years.
And should I write this book that’s now and then in my mind it shouldn’t take me very long. It’s that kind of book, unlike my last fiasco. The 200 pages I abandoned. This one should be fairly easy. Of course none of them is easy. It’s all comparative. The one I’m vaguely entertaining should be easy in comparison to some others I’ve written. Maybe I’ll find out, maybe I won’t.
Anyway, I thought you should know I’m here and not writing. And crazy.