I've needed to get some editing done for days. If I'm going to be ready for NaNo, I need to have all these other chores out of the way.
But there's this little troll, a short little stumpy little wrinkle-faced little jerk,* who sits next to me and whispers, "But wouldn't it be better to do something else? Forget all those silly chores. Clean! Play video games! Read! Anything but work."
And I listen, because his gravely voice is so very convincing. He's right--I DO need to play video games!
(Two hours later) No, wait. I didn't need to do that. I needed to do work! How could I possibly listen to that little brat? WHY? He has sucked so many hours from my days with his too-tempting ideas.
So today, I'm locking him in the closet. Oh, don't worry. I gave him some bread and water, and a few books and a flashlight. I'll get some serious work done, and then I'll let him out...
*So much easier to blame my problems on imaginary friends. Really, it takes all the pressure off my shoulders.
If you don't feel that you are possibly on the edge of humiliating yourself, of losing control of the whole thing, then possibly what you are doing isn't very vital. If you don't feel like you are writing somewhat over your head, why do it? If you don't have some doubt of your authority to tell this story, then you are not trying to tell enough. --John Irving