There are days filled with good intentions that end in little accomplished.
Some days the mind wanders and the eyes stare out the window instead of focusing on the manuscripts and the rewrites.
Sometimes when I open up the different projects it feels like the characters have taken a vacation day. I work on the words and yet I can't hear their voices and it's like writing in a fog.
Sometimes I'm just cranky with myself over lost time from my own disorganized way of being.
I was feeling like I had been making some serious progress on the 2010 book. Yeah, it's been that long now, but then I realized I was not working on rewrites from the last draft but from a middle of the project draft.
I was snarly over it but thought, no big deal, I'll just pull out the paper copy and work from that instead of getting further frustrated with technology and my own ineptness.
I pull out what I've spent months thinking is the 2010 book only to find it's a draft of a novel I wrote in 2012.
I have been so focused in my mind on the 2010 book, I had completely forgotten about the 2012 draft and was shocked to find a paper copy of that one in my working binder.
Shows how much working I got done between last fall and this one, right?
And that's where I get snarky with myself.
After all these years, with nothing to show for all the hours writing and the talk of being a writer, is it fair or real to even play at calling myself one?
Maybe what I really am is a mom with a hobby and a wild imagination.