As a bird soars in flight, so a writer should write

Writers must write.

Busily tip-tapping away all the time, right?

Wrong.

We want to write. We have much to say; our heads as stuffed as homemade scarecrows, bulging with ideas, yet we often don't write, won't write, can't even force ourselves to write. 

You may have heard writers moan about preferring to clean the toilet than to put words to paper.

It's true, but how can this be? It seems insane, considering we chose this delightful diversion...

Or did we?? 

Did it choose us? Like an emperor selects a gladiator to die horribly for his warped entertainment.

Also, consider this. Writing is often a writer’s job. And how many people bounce gleefully into work?

My mother is a dress-designer-maker. And, for as long as I can remember, she hated sewing. Or, not so much hated it as, didn’t want to do it. I recall her often saying: 

“I’ve got to get the bloody machine out again.”

Which is funny, now I think about it. And, interesting, when comparing it to writers. Or comparing it to anyone, for that matter; anyone who's avoiding doing what they're supposed to be doing.

Is it not simply in our nature, then, to want to laze around instead of working? To cradle a hot mug whilst gazing vacuously out the window? To lie on the sofa and do bugger all for as long as possible. Or even clean the toilet again.

It’s not just us writers not working. It’s everyone. It’s more prevalent amongst writers because we have to motivate ourselves. We have no nagging boss chucking staplers at our heads. Unless we have a deadline, of course. 

And I think I know why all this is. Our human genes were forged during times when we only expended energy catching or collecting precious foods. The rest of the time was passed, like other animals, lolling about in languorous satiation or deep in blissful sleep, conserving energy for the next big kill... 

But I digress…

What's the real conclusion of this time-wasting post?

I have a bloody novel to finish, that’s what. I’ve been struggling to get my fat lazy arse in gear, for months, to simply pick up the pen.

It’s that small issue of getting the bloody machine out.

So, I’ve decided to join NaNoWriMo, for the first time ever.

To enforce a deadline upon myself.

To draft my novel by the end of November. A novel in a month, no less.

And might I suggest – if you're a writer suffering from getting-the-bloody-machine-out syndrome – that you join National Novel Writing Month too, so you can finally get your head out of that sparkling toilet...


And write. 

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