I have spent much time over the last couple of weeks crowing to friends, family and anyone else who would listen how happy I am these days. How well school is going. How my writing is just flowing and that the work is satisfying and easy to get into.
Well, I should have kept my mouth shut, because now I’m more than a little mired in the muck and I’m not entirely certain how to unstick myself. In the last four days, I have gotten nothing done.
I have about 10,000 words to write. Most of it is due a week from tonight and I haven’t done a lick of it. And the well of self-motivation from which I’ve been fueling has run mysteriously and inexplicably dry.
This is not to say that I’m now regretting my choices, or that I’d like to take back the Happy post I so jubilantly offered up last week. But all of the sudden it’s gotten really hard and I’m befuddled as to why*.
*Okay, so at the moment, I am deeply, frustratingly, dangerously premenstrual. That just might have something to do with my current muckiness. But I hate to play that card, and I really don’t think it’s an excuse that my journalism professor is going to accept.
The closest I can get to commiserating is that the other night I dreamt about having to write a huge term paper for my boss. I woke up in a panic and was so happy to realize that it was all a dream.
But in the meantime, here’s to getting back to normal soon!
I’m not sure when it happened, when things became measured in the amount of words instead of amount of pages. And little by little, I’m getting used to newspaper writers talking about how many inches they have for a story.
I constantly have to do a little math to get the number back to the “pages” I’m used to. But not those Courier New 12pt pages.