So it’s a Friday night and I’m home alone, hunched over my computer, with Sex and the City reruns on in the background. Glamorous writing life, no?
In fairness, Andy’s out of town. On weekends we’d normally do stuff together. Or at least be boring together.
But don’t worry, I’ve always been fine with just myself for company. Perhaps the result of growing up as an only child? For better or worse, I don’t exactly know the meaning of “bored.” My imagination has always kept me entertained. Whether I was cutting out dolls from paper samples at my parents’ office, or scribbling stories in a composition notebook, I have always been spinning stories.
Now, that’s what I do all day every day. In the morning when I walk my dog, in the afternoons sitting at my desk, and even lately at night, when I’m trying to fall asleep. (Dear brain, where is your Off button?) I have to admit that I’m loving it — and that’s no April Fool’s joke.
But my streak of intense productivity didn’t last all week, or at least, not in the form of 2000+ words per day. But part of moving forward with a story is, inevitably, realizing what you got wrong before. So I spent some time this week working out logistics, doodling maps, running through different scenarios. It’s not as satisfying as putting words on the page, but just as important.
I’m not sure what the “point” of this post is. Maybe that’s the point: there isn’t some great revelation or amazing anecdote to be had every single day. Sometimes life is just “boring.” But those boring days are the investment. Eventually you get to cash in. Eventually you just might hit the jackpot.