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I’m not writing enough.

I’m not writing enough.

I’m not writing enough!

And I could go on, you know. I could go on for a rather long time, because… yes, well: I’m not writing enough.

I’ll take notes, and notes, and more notes, and do freewriting practice (not half as often as I should – but still), and jot down a flash fiction now and then… So It’s not that I’m not writing at all, I’m not blocked, or even just stumped, it’s that…

I’m not writing enough.

I’m not starting anything new, because I have two things that I should finish before. I really should finish at least one of them. But I’m not doing much to finish them, because… well, because I procrastinate like mad, and because every time I walk within speaking distance of either project, a sort of metaphysical air-bag goes off in my head, and… and.

And yes, before you suggest that I try something new all the same, just to shake up things a little, believe me: I’ve tried – and gone nowhere, because whenever I do, the unfinished projects turn up, howling to be finished, finished, finished already…and I can call myself lucky if I get a small flash done amidst the noise.

So, you see?

I’m not writing enough.

And not writing enough makes me all gloomy, and ineffectual, and annoyed at myself, and I procrastinate, and write whiny posts, and…


I’m not. Writing. Enough.