I have a problem: I can’t fill up my day.
Seriously, you guys, my time management has turned to custard. For the last 10 months, I’ve been planning, outlining, researching, free-writing… I’ve got 72,000 words of background information (I counted. I was bored) and a clutch of scrawl-filled notebooks — I’m used to getting up, doing whatever has to be done to keep me alive and semi-presentable, heading to the gym, and being settled in at my café by lunch, where I play in my imaginary world until it’s time to go out. I do a solid four or five hours every Saturday and Sunday.
But now I’m writing, and I burn out after two.
I know my limits — I can do a thousand words in a stretch, and then my mind goes into standby. If I push it, I can sometimes squeeze out more, but it’s usually not much, and it’s always bad. So I write a thousand words a day… which doesn’t take that long.
This should be good. I know this should be good. But it turns out that there’s all these hours in days, and I don’t have anything to put in them. I’ve had three coffees. I’ve tried on every pair of ridiculous heels in the city. I’ve fed and watered and exercised myself. I wrote my shopping list and adjusted my budget and called my parents. I washed my hair, even though my hair didn’t need washing.
I’ve officially killed all the time I feel capable of killing, and I’ve still got an hour until Sunday drinks kick off.
So I’m early. And I’m drinking. Alone. While blogging, longhand, IN A BAR.
I’m also hogging a four-person outdoor table to myself. Suck it, other patrons.