It's 11:35 and I don't want to write.
But I have to.
Get my three pages done so I can lose myself to sleep.
My eyes hurt, I need rest.
But I need these three pages even more.
I'm on page one hundred and change.
I can't stop now.
I've got a story that needs writing.
I need writing.
Like I need to breath. Sometimes more. To center myself.
Get everything out, craft something out of nothing.
Even if it's crap.
I've got to create.
If I'm lucky, I'll be done by 1:00.
I've been sitting here, mindless, thinking of everything, for thirty minutes.
And I'm so tired.
But I've got to write.
It's 11:40 now.
And this is me merely putting off the inevitable.
Dragging it out, an excuse.
After I've pushed through on hard days like this where it feels like a chore, I feel like I can do anything.
Like this means something.
About myself, my willpower.
Because even if right now I procrastinate
Stare at the blinking cursor.
Think I can't. That what I'm saying doesn't mean enough.
Isn't big enough.
I've got to create
I've got to write.
I'm going to do this.
I can do this.
She shoots, she scores.
I'm a writer, I write.
Now I sleep.
Tomarow it begins again.
But hopefully easier.