To which I say, WHAT? These days I'd spend all day in bed if I could. Dark of night, sun outside, doesn't matter. You know, maybe that isn't good.
Maybe I'd rather do anything other than face all this damn work I have piling up. It's not being lazy, exactly, it's more like um, burnout? Forced apathy? Emotional overload?
I'll tell you one thing: moving house has meant excavating layers of sedimentary paper. I have found some interesting stuff. I knew I'd always kept my Dracula story from Grade 6, the one Mrs Prosser wrote a very complimentary note on the back page beside my mark, telling me to keep writing. I had to keep all that proof that I have always loved to write and have always been halfway decent at it. But then to find all these short stories, written before the computer phase of my life, in big juvenile handwriting, is both heartbreaking and encouraging.
Heartbreaking because I know, and realize all over again, that somewhere along the line I stopped believing in my ability, or maybe (more likely) never really believed it.
Encouraging because I know I've always had it, and still have it.
The handwriting matured, and from the quick glances before shoving it all in a box, the stories improved. By high school I was starting into all these concepts and big ideas. If I'd put half that effort into actual schoolwork I'd have done much better, I guess, with the whole report card thing.
Anyways. I have so much to do and not much gumption to get at it. At least the sun is poking through the clouds, and leaves don't rake themselves.
I must stir the snoring Pug and make him come outside with me. Who exactly is it sleeping too much around here???