Problem is, I am a world-class self-deceiver. Decades ago, I would get drunk when the clash between my self-deception and reality was too painful — like, every day. Now I just overeat the wrong kind of foods, and play a lot of video games. Fine — I’m killing myself more slowly with the food, and killing my self-esteem more slowly with the video games. It’s an improvement.
As an ADHD person, I need external structure and discipline to accomplish things — without it, I get lost in my own brain. When I worked for someone else, no matter much I resented their expectations, they provided the structure I need in order to be marginally productive. NaNoWriMo, at least for first drafts or explorations, does that as well. But the other eleven (or ten, or nine, depending on how many Camp NaNoWriMo sessions I do) months of the year, I need to somehow provide my own external structure. Not an easy thing for me to do.
So on the river cruise ship in Europe — I intended to write. I brought everything I needed — but with what little structure I’d managed to create blown out of the water by trip preparation, traveling, and the cruise’s structure of “See a new UNESCO World Heritage Site every day,” I didn’t. Rather than face the pain of looking at my ignored iPad, keyboard, and writing notebook, I overate and gained five pounds, when I really needed to lose 65. And I don’t want to think about the hours and hours that I’ve dumped into video games.
So here I am again. And I’m going back to work — in a job that provides no structure whatsoever. I need the money for my own self esteem if naught else — it really bugs me to depend on Hubby for every penny. But I’m terrified that the baby steps I’ve made towards a writing routine will be wiped out — again — because it’s so easy for me to put “real work” (i.e. work that pays me now rather than later) first, then resent it because it’s “keeping me from writing.”
It’s not keeping me from writing. I do that just fine, by myself, without any help whatsoever.
So I wrote yesterday, and I wrote Friday and Saturday. I’m writing today — writing defined as “actually doing something that moves a work of fiction towards completion.” Not long, not very much, but it’s something. I don’t want to lose this clawhold again.