No, Really, I Mean It

Seriously. Don't bother clicking the continue link. I'm just leaving this out here to fill up the space beside the picture because I can't stand having a big ol' chunk of nothin' there. But I'm just going to be filling space today. That's it.

I even had a post ... well, not started, but seeded at least, for today. I did that for the whole week. But ya know, sometimes things just don't work out. And I'm trying to write more, because it's good for me. That's kind of what this summer - the rest of it, anyway - is going to be about: doing what's good for me. Developing some self-discipline.

Let me tell you: I suck at self-discipline.

I hear that if you run out of things to write about, and you keep writing, you'll dig through the mess in your mind to what you really care about and you'll wind up saying something worthwhile, or at least finding out what you DO want to write about.

Tangent: I've heard this is most useful in the morning - sort of a clear-your-head kind of thing. But I don't think I'm going to be doing that because morning is when it's not quite as miserably HOT and that's when I'm going to go for my walks. Except maybe not tomorrow because of my stupid doctor appointments. *sigh*

So here's trying to find out if it works. Because not only do I not feel like writing about what I'd meant to, I just don't feel like writing. At all. And I feel like that a LOT. So I'm just typing this out ... not exactly randomly... maybe experimentally? I'm trying to keep the flow going as much as possible, because that's what I've heard you're supposed to do, but I do make some corrections as I go. Typos and stuff. And I'm pausing to think.

Usually there's chatter in my mind. Maybe attempting to write would be a good way to clear my head. You know, like meditation. Cuz it seems like the only time that there's no noise in there is when I actually WANT some.

Not sure how much time has passed. Wonder if I can get a word count online. Somebody I read said recently about some kind of 750-words-per-day challenge. Who was it? Can't remember off the top of my head at this hour. Wondering what my word count is. I bet I could hit 750 without saying anything of value. Hell, I bet I could do that on a regular basis.

Hey! There's the cancer-ping again. It's like every so often it just sneaks up and reminds me: CANCER! Like a twitch or something.

I am SO looking forward to getting these stitches out. Stupid things. Itchy and pokey... I've got them covered up with a bandage but of course that means I'm going to have to take it off and that inevitably HURTS. Bligh.

For the longest time I thought of it like: I'm a cancer survivor. I had cancer. I survived it. It was in the past, you know? And now I'm trying to come to terms with the idea that it's going to be more like ... I dunno, diabetes, or high blood pressure... something that I'm going to have to 'maintain' ... something I'm going to have to deal with for the rest of my life. Or at least until I'm senile.

Don't have anything to write. Hit alt instead of shift and got a drop-down menu. Blah blah blah.

Need to go to the library tomorrow. Another dozen or so books are at the circ desk waiting for me... with the volume of reading I've been doing... it's kind of a shame, but to some degree it's becoming something of a chore, along with all the other do-this-because-it's-good-for-me stuff.

I hate discipline.

Word count says only 637.

Can't remember who wrote "On Not Writing" but I just thought of that. And the Twain manuscript with the little numbers.

I hear ... I dunno if they're crickets or frogs. And the fan from the computer... and the other computer. And occasionally the processor running. And of course my clicketykeys!

God, I hope people are right (write! ha!) and I learn to enjoy this. Right now ... I dunno. I think I'd rather do dishes. I'd really, really, REALLY like to learn to enjoy writing. How to make the process meaningful instead of a chore every. single. damn. time.

See, because reading? I can pick up something else. A different book. Another different book. I can keep looking through books until I find one I want to read. Well, in theory. Obviously I don't actually have the world's library at my fingertips. But writing? When I don't have anything to say, I can't exactly say something else, because it's all nothing.

See, and THIS is what happens when you keep writing when you have nothing to say. You don't move from drivel to meaning; you move from drivel to utter nonsense.

831 and I'm so done.