That thing called WORK

I haven't exactly been "going to work" for the past few weeks.

I have about a half dozen priority emails that I need to write, along with some little notes that say "yes, I am still alive, and how are you by the way?"

I don't know why I haven't the energy to write.

Or rather, the energy to start writing. I've found that once my fingers move and start producing things called letters and then words, something coherent and workable will come out of my drabble.

I wish in some ways that I were Neil Simon and I could just sit down and peck out Award Winning plays in my typewriter.

Of course, I hate typewriters. I tried using one when I was 12 and nearly shredded my hands because my hands kept slipping. The electric brought out the perfectionist in me, since I made a lot of changes and hated the sight of snow paste.

And ever since I worked at EcoGov i've found this compulsive need to never use paper. Or waste paper, thinking of all the trees that I've murdered because of my wont for scribble.

Not that wasting all the energy by using the PC made things better...

The truth is, I am just tired. My brain is tired from thinking five stories at the same time, but can't seem to figure out a way to prioritize. Heck, i'm SICK of thinking about that too.

The best advice that you can take when you're writing is to shroud yourself in the reality of the world you are creating. To learn how to cocoon yourself in your work and emerge a few hours later, ready to take on your real world.

But I guess it's hard to do that when you're thinking of making money, of the people you have to write, of the dozen stories you need to develop but don't know if anyone will buy, and underneath it all is this small question that all writers ask and fear: Am I any good?

Well, I sure hope so.