When “writing,” it seems I do anything but writing.

Hours spent on the computer today: about 8 (no, seriously)

Hours spent actually putting words into a word processing document: maybe 2

Hours spent getting into an argument about whether or not C.S. Lewis wrote books that are published under the name C.S. Lewis: 1

Hours spent staring blankly at Facebook: 2 (total)

Hours spent researching topics tangentially related to the project I’m writing: 2

Hours spent on Amazon trying to figure out how to get my Kindle to work again: 1

So yeah.  I can’t complain about slow authors like Robert Jordan or George R. R. Martin, because I am definitely in the same genus of writer.  (Scriptor Tardus?  Heh, sounds like TARDIS.)

Bradbury talks about the need to feed your muse, to crank out a solid thousand words a day to keep yourself in practice.  Neil Gaiman says something similar: to be a writer, you must write.  Maybe this is me getting stuck in the Big Swampy Middle again (Already?  On Chapter Four), or maybe I really have mild ADD.  I don’t know.  All I know is, suddenly it is dragging agony to put one word in front of another.  What am I doing wrong?  Do I not have enough rotten apples in my desk?

Ah well.  Once more unto the breach.

(Hours spent writing a blog entry instead of writing: 0.25)