Hello being a writer. A proper writer. Two days a week to
write my book. My new book, that’s going to be funny, and clever, and
thought-provoking without being worthy. It’s going to be great. It’s going to
be brilliant. It’s going to be…
FUUUUUUUUUUUCK.
Brain.
Shut up.
I wish I had an off button so I could shut it down, or at
least put it on mute for a bit.
It’s not like I’m thinking important stuff, or clever
things.
It’s just noise.
And working in the house?
Forget it.
Who knew I liked cleaning so much? And emptying the
dishwasher. And washing everyone’s clothes. And virtually anything other than
sitting down in from of the computer and writing.
This is the dream, right?
I’m living the fucking dream.
If the dream involved being cleaning obsessed, all over
social media and an expert on the challenges Meghan Markle is having with her
family. (Seriously? Her dad needs to get a grip.)
I imagined I’d be all, sitting in cafes, looking a bit UrbanOutfitters, bashing out another amazing chapter before having a swim because
that’s just what I do these days.
Instead I haven’t bothered to have a shower, as its not like
I’m going to see anyone and I’m panicking my face off that I’m just going to
write the shit sequel.
The Mannequin 2 of the book world.
Right, OK. Here we go.
Quick check of Yahoo news. Facebook. Emails. Junk mails.
Hang on, Holly Willoughby’s poorly?
Richard Gere’s just had a baby at what age??
I will just get to the end of the Internet and then, THEN I’ll
get started.
* Any procrastination busting tips would be much appreciated
** Asking for a friend
** Obviously asking for me.
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