It was St. Patrick’s Day this weekend. While Ireland was awash with green, I decided to avoid all Patrick related things and instead stuck to quiet suburbia. I had great intentions this week/weekend. Having a day off work meant my college work was going to be done and dusted and I was going to be writing my head off. Instead I just overindulged; in alcohol, sleep, rich food and laziness. I somehow became a human sloth.
Those weekends are fine now and again. In fact they are probably required for my brain to take a break and my energy levels to rise again. But it just feels like wasting time. I want to get a publishing deal, but yet have nothing publishable. The novel is finished but has so many holes, swiss cheese envies it.
It is not going to write itself, a fact I am well aware of. I can feel it bubbling beneath the surface, that and the other projects I have roaming around my head. It bubbles, but has nowhere to go so instead is just building up waiting to blow. And I want it to. Spew into a lava flow of productivity that has the words running from the page like ants.
I may not have three toes, but this week I belonged amongst the furry creatures hanging out in the trees as hammocks. As week 11 starts a day late (as I keep thinking today is Monday) I don’t want to see a branch in sight.