I sat at my computer for nearly half an hour, trying to get something written for the posting this week. The blank space and the blinking cursor just staring at me, mocking me with every second that ticked by. Each flash of the cursor reminded me you're stuck, you're stuck, you're stuck. Stupid insensitive cursor.
Excuses started running through my head: the insomnia has been hounding me again, the winter weather has me kind of blue, my beloved dog isn't doing so well. How can I create (cue dramatic flourish, add a beret or a white scarf) when all of this is going on around me, sapping my artistic spirit, silencing my muse? How can I be expected to work when I don't feel like working?
And then the ol' logic center kicked in: because if I expect to be treated like a professional one day, I have to start acting like one now. Editors aren't going to expect any less than any other employer just because my job entails writing a book. Deadlines aren't going to apply to everyone else but me. If I'm going to be taken seriously, I'm going to need to stop whining.
Sigh. It's too bad, though, because I look pretty snazzy in a beret. :)