Procrastinating

Nothing’s so intimidating as a blank page. It’s so pristine, so clean. Maybe it’s my semi-Puritan upbringing, but I’m so frightened to dirty the page with myself.

 My mother always curbed my appetite for the creative. You can’t have more construction paper, you’ll use it and waste it, so we can’t spend the money on it. It’s expensive and useless.

 My father was the opposite. He drove me to my first audition for a church play; I was in first grade, and the whole thing was a mistake. But he woke up early and drove me up the hill to blubber a few lines at a very courteous and patient director who eventually didn’t cast me.

 Even today, as I procrastinate beginning this novel, I sort through miles of stationery I’ve collected over the year. Greeting cards and notecards with beautiful artwork, and I can’t bring myself to blot them with ink.

 I’m usually better at finding a setting instead of a character. Perhaps I’ll Virginia Woolf this novel and write it from a snail’s perspective.

So, it begins.

It's been a while.

It's been a while since I've written...anything.

The only journals I keep these days are the photos I take on Instagram and Snapchat. #noregerts

But I'm committing to National Novel Writing Month by warming up with a blog post on my writing days.

I doubt I'll actually write a novel this month, but it will be a great opportunity to stretch some long-rusted muscles.

I wonder if publishers see November rolling around each year and collectively groan at the thought of the flood of manuscripts come December and January.