I should be writing.
OK, I am writing, I’m writing in my blog, but what I mean is that I should be writing, working on the two or three or whatever novels that are sitting, fallow in my brain. I can picture them in there, hard-bound books with no dust jacket, the words existing in some kind of indeterminate state, waiting to become actual. They’re laying in plain sight, on a shelf right where my mental homunculus paces back and forth in the mental library where he spends most of his time.
No pressure, they seem to say (since, even though they’re mental images of future goals, they aren’t bound to the same rules as actual books), no hurry, just write us when you’ve got the energy and time… say, you’re aren’t doing anything right now, are you? Maybe you could just spin out a chapter or two…? No? Maybe work on the outline a bit, flesh us out? No? Well, we’ll just wait here, then while you finish whatever it is you are working on. Yes, it’s certainly been a long day, hasn’t it? Long year, more like. We can see that you’re tired. Just go rest a bit, and we’ll wait here… still waiting…
Yeah, my mental images of my goals are really good with the guilt. They probably learned that from my mother. Heh.