...is that I get here, and just stare at the screen. It's like there's only a finite number of words that I am capable of producing, and once I have hit that limit...that's it--shut off mode.
It's a shame, really, I mean, I guess in a typical day I could have maybe 3 or 4 hours of writing, if I managed my time well.
Except, who said I manage my time well? I steal half an hour herea, an hour there, and maybe it adds up to a few hours. Anyway, my quota was met and exceeded yesterday and today with a series of things that had to be written, and not one, NOT ONE was for pleasure.
Sheesh. This is mostly to stave off the nasty commentary from she-who-shall-remain-nameless. It's for naught. I can hear the comment now: Nice. Another excuse for not finishing the novel.
For your information, when writers find other stuff to do instead of writing, it's called "vacuuming the cat." As in, there's something far more important to do than write.
Of course, it's silly for me to vacuum a cat. I don't have one. But we have vacuumed the dog when he was shedding copiously. Or I could blog.