It's been a lot of limp lettuce around here in the writing department. I can't get a decent blog post to squeeze out of me, and when it comes to my bookus (think fetus), I've been stuck in the middle of a stale scene for days. The characters are on the verge of picketing and calling the union on me.
But the kitchen has remained clean! The counters are wiped down and the floor got a steam bath yesterday!
I'm all about imbalance, borrowing time and energy from some important part of my life to feed another. Teetering on the edge of knowing what I'm doing and second-guessing everything. When I'm frustrated creatively, my practical side vacuums and dusts. If I'm running away from writing, I find solace in the laundry. It makes me feel less guilty to be slacking off creatively if I'm using the time to tidy. Quit nagging me, Creative Side, I'm doing something really important! LAUNDRY IS REALLY IMPORTANT! Sheesh!
If you ever come over and the sink is piled with three-day-old dishes and there's no clean socks, you can be sure that I'm on a writing roll. Or that there's been a Project Runway marathon on TV.
It's a classic case of robbing Peter to pay Paul, except that Peter and Paul were big-hearted disciples who preached about forgiveness. I'm robbing Martha Stewart to pay Judi Dench, and you don't want to mess with either of those chicks.
The problem with imbalance is that I'm forever letting some piece of myself down. I'm in constant apology to Neglected Things I Should Be Doing. Is this the plight of every adult? At least the women? I jalopy my way through every week. On Monday morning, I'm determined to finally get it right, but when I close the door on Friday, I'm shrugging my shoulders saying, "Oh well."
Is it because I want and need to be doing too many things? Or because I don't get enough whole grains? Or is it because I never read any of those Stephen Covey books?
I think I'm going to make a study of Snoopy the dog; he totally seemed to have it all together.