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…
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?
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.
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.