The simple fact is I don’t wish to write today. I am tired. I woke early to pick up my wife at the airport. She is understandably tired: travel in addition to pregnancy. So I handled the shopping and the preparation of the coming week’s lunches. Now my feet ache – my dogs are not exactly barking, its more of a whine. Along the lines of what I’m doing here.
I just want to flop down on the couch and marinate my brain in the soporific inanities of Sunday evening television. Can’t do it. Dinner will not prepare itself, no matter how politely I ask. And, well, there is the small matter of a web log post. The point of a regularly scheduled post is to inculcate discipline. I take a break from writing fiction on Sundays, but I still need to put words on the page, maintain writing discipline.
Writing is a job that does not come with a clock to punch or a supervisor to keep one on task. The only one holding the writer’s nose to the grindstone is the writer. So, this is me, pumping the treadle and losing nose hairs to the sparks.
Cracking your own whip seems uncomfortably close to self-flagellation, doesn’t it?
Right, then. Time to cook dinner.