It’s only because the day is ending that somehow, I have a bit of force to go get moving, to spend this last hour doing, really doing, because I don’t want to spend that time later. Once I get home, it seems to take ten times longer to do anything. I need stronger sticks and bigger carrots to find my motivation.
I’m thinking about Salida. It’s both near and far. Same for Vegas. Sort of nice to have 2 quasi-planned vacations on the books. Sometimes, lately, often, I feel like I have to fight to keep my eyes open. Even after my usual cups of coffee, I feel sleep invading and pulling me back towards its realm by my hair. Slugabed.
I am motivated, though. I want to spend as much of my evening as possible outlining. That’s feeling like something that is happening – happening imperfectly, coming out all bruised and less than, but it is moving. I am writing a novel. My novel. The novel that has been laying in wait for decades, waiting for an angel to herald its arrival. Finally, it’s come to terms with the fact that there are no heavenly horns a’blowing and if it wants to see the outside world, it just has to gather up its petticoats and get out here.
The fact that there are errands to run, that there is post work-work to accomplish is irritating.
…I have to get out of this habit of irritation. I just feel it immediately lately.
+250 words on the story timeline. Outline. Thing. Working away.