Fuck. Why oh why, writer's block, must you curse me now? Age old question, I'm sure...but seriously, COME ON! I have loads of free time on my hands what with the job search looking rather dismal and not having to babysit everyday. Every morning, I sit down at my computer, read the paper (or New York Times if my dad took the Journal Sentinel to work with him), check Facebook, check Hulu, and stare at my opened Word document: "Autumn Leaves novel".
It's taunting me, that fucking page, but I can't close out of it or I really will waste this summer away! I need to stop being so lazy but no matter what I seem to do, I cannot bring myself to write. Anything else? Random-ass poems? Shit for this blog? Record long-winded video diaries? Done, done, and done. But anything slightly productive I have thrown out the window.
I blame my overly relaxed (school-wise) semester at UCC in Ireland for my lack of productivity. In Cork City I would waste many a day away in front of my computer, editing Autumn Leaves while waiting for TV episodes to load in vain, surrounded by dirty dishes and a half-empty cereal box. My trusty mug would be filled with some liquid, usually tea, but on plenty of occasions it was wine, vodka, orange juice, or some failed attempt at a cocktail.
Yup, my writing quality (and desire to write) did increase with my alcohol consumption, but I'm guessing this is due to my rule not to be on the internet drunk and thus writing was one of my few choices. Being home though and once again under the legal age (only one more year!) and having no desire for my siblings walking in on me sipping a Cosmo at two in the afternoon, alcohol-influenced "ingeniousness" is no longer an option. Ireland did, however, teach me to write daily since there was little else with which to fill my countless hours of time.
Summer is a lot like being back in my apartment in Cork, actually, minus the sunlight I get here at home. It will probably feel different once all my siblings are out of school and running around the house. In the meantime though, I've wasted a day again doing little of which I can be proud after a "day's work". Why can't I write?
I know why: I can, but I don't want to. I don't want to fail, don't want to be rid of the characters that have been such a huge part of my life, don't want to have to start from square one with a new plot for my next story, don't want to begin the agonizing task of editing the entire fucking thing. Stop, STOP! Suck it up, Molly Jane, put on your big girl undies and get this shit done.