Day 153 - Excuses

our front porch

I feel drained of energy today, enervated. And I have so many reasons, er... excuses, for feeling this way. But what I can't let happen is using those excuses to skip writing today.

Excuse number 1 - We have Bunk, Simon and Sarah's boxer, staying with us. And because of my allergies, I have to take a pill each day to avoid getting all congested and sneezy. Allergy medications make me sleepy so after finishing work today, I ended up taking a nap. I was so tired.

Excuse number 2 - But before taking a nap, I thought Bunk would enjoy spending some time outside on the front porch. So I took my current reading material, Dissolution by C. J. Sansom, and sat down at the table with hibiscus plants that Alex loves so much and read. Bunk followed me and took possession of a dog-shaped section of the porch and napped. It was 90 degrees out there today. That made me tired.

Excuse number 3 - Dissolution is so well written that as I read it, I feel the same things the characters feel, I smell the same smells, and I see the same sights. The section of the book that I am in right now is at a monastery in the sixteenth century in the winter. In spite of the 90 degree temperture outside, I felt chilled. And that made me want to curl up under covers to get warm.

Excuse number 4 - On Monday I attended a meeting of the San Diego Writers and Editors Guild where Jill Williamson talked about the evolution of her memoir, Confessions of a Love Addict. At one point, Jill said writers don't write to make a lot of money, they write because they have to. Writing to a writer, she said, is a necessary bodily function, like eating and sleeping and other things. And nearly everyone else in the room nodded their heads like they knew exactly what she meant. So I have been asking myself every day since then if I really am or could be a writer. Is writing really something I have to do? Or am I just fooling myself? Thinking about that makes me tired.

Excuse number 5 - I can't stop thinking about Dad and that he is gone. It has been more than a month since he died, but I still haven't written all the thank you notes I told myself I should write. All those in response to memorial gifts, plants, and flowers, the obligatory ones, have been written, but there are notes to the staff of Eventide, of Hospice of the Red River Valley, and to the members of Trinity who served at Dad's funeral. I should have written those letters a month ago, but I still haven't. And that makes me tired.

I started this project to get myself into the habit of writing every day. I have had to skip a day now and then, like the week Dad died and the two weeks we had guests, and yesterday because it was Alex's birthday and I wanted him to know he is the center of my world, but the rules for the project are my own so I can break them if I need to. I just hope I can avoid changing need to want. If I do that, I might have to concede that I am not, and never will be, a writer.