That's how my grandfather described his first heart attack. It's also how I feel when I'm not meeting my writing goals. Since I last posted, I've spent most of my writing time either writing or feeling guilty for not writing. I am only halfway to where I want to be in my novel. Sunday night, I realized that the deadline for a short story contest was this Friday. In the midst of all that, I haven't been posting here, either. The weight is getting crushing.
In my defense, we are also in the early stages of a bathroom renovation (6 people + 1 bath = yippee), my kids just went back to school (new routine), and my students just came back to school (early semester crunch). When I am writing, it's often at the expense of sleep. I pay for it the next day in spades. Sometimes I spend my writing time sleeping, and that becomes a vicious cycle.
All this to say that being a writer is hard. It's not this ephemeral process whereby Angels and Muses float pixie dust into the air, and the writer just reaches in and grabs great story material. It takes commitment and discipline. It means a lot of sacrifice, and sometimes a lot of guilt. It's a lot like getting on the treadmill. I don't want to do it. Inertia makes my feet weigh nine hundred pounds. But once I get on and get running, I feel great - usually. There are those days when it's just not happening, and I'm gasping for breath, but it's the exception.
Dragging myself to the keyboard is the same way. Once I get there, I have to fake it for a while. But once I break through the wall, I find myself in my story and things start to flow. This week I finished a short story I started in July, and I felt like I instantly gained three inches of lung capacity. It was exhilarating. And so, so worth it.
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