I've become the kind of person that drives me crazy. I know these kinds of things ebb and flow and there will be desert seasons and that I should expect them, but I'm just not writing as much or as well as I want to be lately.
Like I said, I'm the kind of person who drives me crazy.
If you look at my app that tracks how many days in a row I've been writing, you'd be impressed, I guess. The number is a big number. If you look at my productivity lately, or the quality of my work, you'd probably crinkle your nose and say "good for you", but sarcastically.
Raise Hell feels like it's going nowhere. Look at my outlines, if you come to my house. They're half full pages that I eventually move on from and just restart. I know where it has to go, but I don't know how to get it there.
The worst part is, I can think of about a billion excuses. I moved just two weekends ago and I'm still not totally unpacked. Work has been crazy. Stuff in this new house keeps breaking. I'm not sleeping very well. Maddy isn't used to the new house and is antsy in the mornings.
None of those matter, do they? Excuses hardly ever count. Excuses aren't for other people. They're for us, to help us feel better about something we're not doing or something we're not doing right. They're about covering our tracks, passing the blame, pointing the finger anywhere but towards ourselves.
I don't want to make excuses. I haven't been writing the way I expect myself to lately.
I'm going to do better.