My husband just shared this lovely post with me from the blog of a Real writer (my words, not his). I'm a writer too, doncha know. I'm a writer who produced in the past week Not One Single Word of my manuscript which is due in 1107 hours. Hours? What's this hours nonsense? I put it out in hours as it looks farther away that way than it does in days (45, for the inquiring minds).
Monday through Saturday I was able to cope with Not Writing. Monday through Saturday I was a studio owner/studio artist/teacher, and I was swamped in those roles. I was even able to thoroughly enjoy some time carved out for my family over the weekend (dancing under the stars and sleeping on the trampoline). I was able to do all of those things because I held Sunday in front of me. Bright, shining, pure, empty Sunday--today, in other words--as the day I would finally conquer the structure of the book and the schedule of my time, and I would Begin To Write In Earnest. This epic Sunday would naturally prepare me for a stellar Monday and 90,000 words written in the next 45 days. (Do the math. Even without Real Life, it's not pretty, or, dare I say, even possible.)
I meant to get up at 6:00 am this morning, but I didn't set an alarm because I figured if my body was able to get up, it would. If it needed a little more sleep, I should let it have it. I got up at 8:30. Then I worked on tax papers until 3:00--from 12:00 - 3:00 with our accountant. Then I had a couple of loose ends at the studio--materials and firings--to clear up. Then I had the last two baby bunnies to deliver to their new home. Then the Apple TV needed reset, and dinner was consumed, and family time spent, and cello practiced with J, and J showered and into bed... And now it's 9:20. I have consumed a bit of wine, and I am not able to make heads or tales of the outline from which I am to write this book. Is this it? Do I throw in the towel and myself on the publisher's mercy and beg for an extension through the summer? A cynical little corner of my brain just piped up with, "Would it matter if they said yes?".
All I can do is think of the natural state of my business (and the theater business in Shakespeare in Love) and hope that it will all turn out ok (it's a mystery). Or I can beg.