Is it just me, or is January just jaded and jittery? I can’t settle to anything and my inner Task Master, my brain’s Sergeant Major, my Queen of to-do seems to have taken a winter sun holiday, leaving me alone and lost. Instead of marching through the days ticking off lists, I get distracted, overwhelmed, outnumbered, outsourced. My daughters have noticed. They ask for chocolate and I give it to them. They whine that they want to stay in and dress up rather than go for a walk. I shrug my shoulders and say ok. My Fearless Fight must have joined Sergeant Major in the Maldives.
I fought very hard to get writing in the right place, to have a spot for it, to have several whole hours dedicated to it. But now, I find myself hoovering under the sofa. I never hoover under the sofa. The house is silent - little people are off being amused by other big people, the house is clean - did that yesterday, the house has no need to be cooked in today - all taken care of, the house is expecting me to come up with something interesting, and intriguing and irresistibly original. And I’m hoovering under the sofa. Not creating, not thinking, not researching, and certainly, most definitely, not writing my book.
My Muse, my inner Writing Wizard, my Mental Manager clearly suffers from SAD (seasonal affective disorder). She won’t take off her thermals and come out of hibernation until the clock strikes midnight and banishes January for another year. That gives me three more days to languish in lethargy. And when the sun rises on February first - I expect to see daffodils in the garden, birds singing in the trees, and budding bursts of creativity on my laptop. Three more days. Then the thermals are gone, the sleepy head is cleared and the gloves are off.
As some great man said (I think it was Oscar Wilde) - the art of writing is the art of putting one’s arse on a chair. So three more days and I’ll muster my mojo and then go sit at the table. The chocolate tin will be firmly shut. In the meantime…. another cup of tea.