I’ve been teaching myself how to let me write. I’ve been dealing with the end of the child custody thing, which was causing some emotional wreckage, not conducive to my permitting me to write. And trying to work on the house. And dealing with the flood. And being broke. And. And. And.
Aberdeen, please sit quietly until I’m done. Ambar, you and Bridgette sit next to her. If anybody sees Thingmaker coming in with a purposeful gleam in his eye, bodycheck him, please.
So I decided that, really, since I’ve not finished my book and haven’t sent the .ms. to Prospective Agent, and since we’re tight for cash, I should probably skip Writer’s Weekend this year. I had enormous feeling of angst about that; if I don’t go, if we spend the cash on other things, it will be too easy to let things slide, and writing will become a Someday thing again, and WW will be easier to skip next year and so I found a security blanket to cuddle. I would save the monies earmarked for WW and keep them unspent, and I would buckle down and write and write and write.
Let’s check that, just for kicks. I couldn’t go to WW because I hadn’t written enough and didn’t have the money. My decision to remedy that was to not go, while writing enough that I could have gone and not-spending the money. Here’s where I stand up and, head held high, claim that I saw that I was in error and corrected myself, and am striding purposefully forward with renewed vigor.
Wouldn’t that be a lovely world.
I knew that I was a little tweaky about not-going. I resolved to email Aberdeen & Ma for advice, and possibly Ambar & mizkit as well. And then didn’t.
Here’s how we finally learned to save money. We can’t keep it in the bank. We can’t keep it in our wallets. We can’t just not-spend. So what we do is take Saving money and put it in an envelope clearly labelled with the purpose for which the money is destined, ie, Landscaping, House Repairs, or Writer’s Weekend. The rule is that money may not come out. We may not borrow from the envelopes. The money simply never reaches the bank, and so is invisible. Any overtime I work, any raises I earn, go into the envelopes, enlarging savings. It works.
For three weeks I carried the Envelope money in my wallet rather than put it away. I eventually realized that it had something to do with my plan to not put more in the WW envelope. Idly, I visited the website.
Something very like Remorse hybridized with a crocodile found its grip on me and began to thrash its tail, spinning, trying to break my neck and pull me under for leisure feasting on my remains. I made a spreadsheet to demonstrate to myself, in simple numerical terms, why I couldn’t go. I started with the money…and discovered that I could go. I figured the hotel room heavy, I added in a luxurious night out with Bridgette. We could still go.
Uhm. So I worked out my writing rates now that I am working with pen-and-paper, slowly and tediously. I discovered that I am about 40% more productive, minute-to-minute, than I am on keyboard.
And that, if I continue to write two to three 15-minute bursts a day, I will have a .ms. complete and in second draft (at least) by WW.
…so I’m not going because…I can’t take the cash from the family budget –
Except that I’m going to anyway, just not benefit from it.
– and can’t complete my book –
Except that I not only can, but I have been doing so for a while now, and faster than before.
So shut up and tell me the real reason you aren’t going.
– uh…and because I’m scared?
…and when you’re scared you ….
*hangs head* …put on my big-girl panties and get on with it anyway.
Jeezi Kreezi, what the hell could be so bad about doing what I compulsively do anyway and getting paid for it? I’m getting damned tired of barking my shin on this or that obstacle only to look closely and discover that it’s me I’m smacking my tibia against. I’m hoping I run out of stupid tricks to play on me, soon.
In related news, I am writing daily and making excellent progress. I cannot adequately explain this. I assume it to be a sign of the end-times. I go now to write for the remainder of lunch.
Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry