Yesterday I felt like I accomplished close to nothing. Today, however, I managed to:
- wash two loads of clothes
- go grocery shopping
- fill my gas tank
- cook dinner
- take out the trash
- feed and water cats (x2)
- clean out cat litter box (x2)
- take a nap
- read about fifteen different newspaper articles
- listen to half of a podcast about Anton Kreil
While it’s a long list, it’s not a ton of high-octane activity. But in addition to everything on that list, I also wrote a 3,000-word story.
Was it a good story? I doubt it. Then again, I always doubt whether anything I write is good. It’s just what you do when you write anything.
The point is, I wrote a 3,000-word story that may or may not be any good. I wrote it. It had a beginning, a middle, and an end. Though full of absolute nonsense, the story touched on current events, astrology, friendship, fascism, nostalgia, and the small crimes we all commit more often than we will admit.
I mentioned to a friend of mine (the only person who ever reads my stories, actually) that if I cranked out 3,000 words every day, I could write a novel every month.
So why don’t I?
Duh. Because I’m lazy.