I keep meaning to sit down and do some actual writing. I even have an office now, so there really is no excuse about not finding the space, and since I work from home and that troublesome commute is gone, there should also be no excuse about finding the time.
But somehow I am still not able to find either the space or the time, and today I have reached the conclusion that I am 1) a lazy bugger and 2) possibly not bored enough.
Boredom and fury were the two things that used to get me writing. Now there are more than four TV channels to choose from, computer games are much more likely to load without a glitch, I've got a husband to keep entertained as much as he entertains me, and there are STILL all those books to read... Nowadays boredom only strikes when it is horribly inappropriate to start writing.
In my teens I needed very little prompting to go and write. Any little drama would inspire me to bound up the stairs to my bedroom and escape into fiction, giving my occasionally obnoxious heroines all the tools and verbal dexterity to deal with whatever I, in real life, hadn't. Now either I have become that obnoxious mouthy person, or I'm just better at coping with drama. Or, perhaps more truthfully, better at distinguishing what needs to be moped / stropped / cried over. Bless teenagers, but the raging hormones thing IS true, and perhaps that's the problem. My hormones are a little more settled and the ability to run to my computer to write the world's wrongs is just not the necessity it used to be.
Maybe I should try regression... Or pregnancy...
But somehow I am still not able to find either the space or the time, and today I have reached the conclusion that I am 1) a lazy bugger and 2) possibly not bored enough.
Boredom and fury were the two things that used to get me writing. Now there are more than four TV channels to choose from, computer games are much more likely to load without a glitch, I've got a husband to keep entertained as much as he entertains me, and there are STILL all those books to read... Nowadays boredom only strikes when it is horribly inappropriate to start writing.
In my teens I needed very little prompting to go and write. Any little drama would inspire me to bound up the stairs to my bedroom and escape into fiction, giving my occasionally obnoxious heroines all the tools and verbal dexterity to deal with whatever I, in real life, hadn't. Now either I have become that obnoxious mouthy person, or I'm just better at coping with drama. Or, perhaps more truthfully, better at distinguishing what needs to be moped / stropped / cried over. Bless teenagers, but the raging hormones thing IS true, and perhaps that's the problem. My hormones are a little more settled and the ability to run to my computer to write the world's wrongs is just not the necessity it used to be.
Maybe I should try regression... Or pregnancy...
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