1000 Days

Working on eradicating the hobgoblin of time.  The first step is admitting it–a hundred times and doing nothing about it ever.

What’s the second step?

I guess that would be doing something about it.  And then writing a book on how to find free time when you have kids.  Which I suspect the main strategy would be to simply aggregate all your down time into one block.  Quite fluffing shit.  Quit watching crap TV at bedtime.  Quit not getting off the couch.  Think of things that suck my time and don’t produce as the enemy of writing.

Good thing that the enemy need not be vanquished.  Merely avoided.

Become a producer and not a consumer.

Be an expert at something.

It’s hard to find time some days.

I am not sitting around just ready to write.  I do always have time, but the myth of a regular time is difficult to overcome.

It takes me a while to be creative, to get a flow, to have a purpose.  That’s hard inertia to overcome.  That might be worth tackling.

Cattatay turned wriggled sideways through the musky tomes.  The long aisle was brighter ahead than behind and promised a better chance to get back to her desk quicker.  Books were just meant to be held and read, but the way these tripped up her walking and scraped at her face was over much.

Managing her way to the end of the aisle she discovered the reason for the light and the seeming escape was a sliver of a window.  The window opened to an exterior wall more than to the outside and was opaqued with rain grime.  Cattatay slumped onto the bookshelf in defeat.

Not much good as a Seer she thought.  I’m not even in the ‘lyncanthropia’ section any longer.  “Is this even the right stack?”

Cattatay’s neighbor was a wolf now.  Originally he was a placid old man with nothing to do but hoe carrots and wait for his sons to visit at holiday.  People weren’t accidentally turned into wolves; it made no sense that Henree had been targeted by a Transformer.