Fall is definitely my favorite season. Everything about it makes me happy; the cooler temperatures allowing for windows to be open, fresh air flowing freely. My dogs can actually go for walks with no worry about burning their paws, or becoming overheated. My hair doesn’t frizz. I don’t get the famous boob sweat, or slippery make up face. It’s just so damn civilized. Then comes the blessing of the changing of all the leaves. It’s like my city is on fire with colors, and I’m in heaven.
Fall is my shit.
The thing that makes me go “hmmm” about all this mad love I feel for fall, is if I really truly do love this time of year, then why do I become a hermit? Like why does my motivation to do anything at all, vanish?? I mean, it doesn’t make sense to me. If something inspires, excites, and suits you so completely, then how can it create the opposite physical reaction?
This is what I’m talking about. I’m supposed to be writing my non-fiction book. While I was in Costa Rica, I mapped out my entire schedule for when I returned. If I had followed it, at all, my non-fiction book, first complete draft, would be finished by Friday September 30th.
You wanna know how many new pages I’ve written in my non-fiction book since getting back to Toronto on September 9th?
Not a page, not a word, NADA.
I even worked into the schedule 10 days to get reorganized with my life, paperwork, bills etc, etc, etc, after being gone for a month. It was built in. I had set myself up for absolute success when plotting out my writing schedule. Now with no progress on my book, I’m clearly annoyed at myself, because you know I made a plan, it was clear, it was straightforward, and most importantly. It was achievable. But I didn’t do it. I didn’t even start to try to get it done.
Why? Where has my mojo gone? Why didn’t I spend four or five hours writing today, post breast cancer luncheon, but pre-dinner, with our new publicist/friend at 7:30pm, why did I crawl into bed with my three boys and watch a movie and eat popcorn with them instead?
How is it that I keep allowing “one of those days” turn into, well now an entire month of not writing? I feel like my “Year of Yes” is keeping me from another thing I vowed to accomplish this year; which was get Black Picket Fence to the point of being able to actually shop, and land representation, and complete one non-fiction book in my series of six. But here I sit, confessing to all of you, that the only writing I seem capable of getting done on a regular basis are my daily musings, twitter, and responses to all the emails I receive in a day.
Like WTAF am I doing?? I have a girlfriend who stayed up for four days straight and wrote a non-fiction book. Maybe I need to lock myself away, take my cellphone to the bank and put it in a safe. Have Yannick disconnect the WIFI, since I have no idea in the slightest how to turn that back on, and spend every single day writing until I finish the 80 pages I have left to write. If I just do it, 80 pages should only take me eight days. 10 pages a day. For 8 days. Sounds easy enough, sounds do able…holy f*#k it sounds like it’s possible because IT IS POSSIBLE.
Perhaps what I really need, is to begin to say “no” to outside commitments for the next month, and say YES to my own personal commitments? But can I, am I capable of that? Now that’s something really makes me go “hmmm…”