Psyched

So, beyond the initial post, I haven’t touched this blog for awhile. I’ve noticed that a lot of people apologize for long absences. I find it both sort of amusing and vaguely annoying when 60%+ of postings to a blog contain some manner of apology for not posting as much. I think most rational people understand that as a human being, sometimes life gets in the way and you just don’t have time to do things like post. Or even sometimes shower. So, I shall say that life has been busy and leave it at that.

And I’ve been playing entirely too much World of Warcraft. Mostly at Evil Boyfriend’s insisting. As new parents, we aren’t very wealthy right now and that game is cheap entertainment. I don’t see the addicting qualities of it so much. I mean, it’s fun, but I couldn’t sit at a computer and play it for hours upon hours as some people. *cough*Evil Boyfriend*cough* Add this in with a brand new part-time job that I started last week, a new baby that is endlessly distracting, and the normal, everyday drudgery of life and, as you might guess, not a lot of writing is getting done.

THINKING about writing is getting done, though. That is a step up from where I was a couple months ago, where I didn’t think much about writing period. Now, I think about story ideas and I think about editing my novel and I entertain vague ideas about a sequel to the novel that I had released from Double Dragon E-books. But no actual writing yet. I’m sort of wondering if I have psyched myself out like I did with my toenail over the weekend.

See, I’m terminally clumsy. It’s a family trait that I inherited from my father. Anyway, I went to the farmer’s market with my parents last Saturday (it was my first time and I am definitely a convert) and they give you these nifty red wagons to cart your goods around in. My parents and I shared one (which will not happen again as we ran out of room very quickly) and, after we were finished, I volunteered to return the wagon on my way back to my car. Well, just before parking the wagon, I ran it right over the pinkie toe on my left foot.

Ouch. Big Ouch.

I bit back a colorful string of curses because there were small children around and I don’t think I could have dealt with parental glares as well as the pain in my foot. So, I hobbled back to my car and went home.

Fast forward several hours.

Evil Boyfriend and I were putzing around the house, playing with the baby and making lunch from our stash of newly acquired fruits and veggies. Being my usual graceless self, I kicked a wall HARD. Hard enough to knock off most of my already damaged pinkie toe nail. Evil Boyfriend, being a good judge of first aid, decided that the toe nail needed to come off. Cue me freaking out and squirming away every time he came at me with tweezers. I was in hysterics for about fifteen minutes because, for me, the anticipation of pain is worse than actual pain. I mean, come on. Pulling off toenails is a classic torture! And I was expected to just let Evil Boyfriend do this without a whimper! Finally, after a few tears and some yelling, I submitted to the torture of having what remained of my toenail yanked off.

It didn’t hurt even a tenth of what I was expecting. I was more psyched out by the IDEA of how much it was going to hurt than by the actual pain itself. I wonder if I haven’t done this with my writing. It has been so long since I sat down and actually wrote that I’ve convinced myself that I am worse at it than I actually am. Maybe I just need to sit down and write. No more obsessing about what project to work on or what words to use or who the heck is going to buy my writing anyway.

Turn off brain. Engage muse.

So much easier said than done.

Anyhow, I will be participating in PBW’s Left Behind & Loving It workshops. I’m hoping that might help to kick some of the cobwebs out of my brain and get the juices flowing again. I’ll likely be posting any thoughts, notes, etc.

I’m off now to nurse my toe. While the pain of actually ripping out the toenail is not as awful as the torture manuals suggest, walking around without a nail hurts. Maybe that’s the tortuous part.