I am a slack-arsed moll. In fact I give slack-arsed molls a bad name. I have not written one word of my novel for two weeks. Not one single word. I haven't even turned on the writing computer for two weeks. The burden of guilt is a cruel and heavy one, like carrying a giant donkey on my back.
I was going great guns over Christmas but as soon as work started back again I have done not one little thing, well not one little writing thing. I have downloaded songs off the net and bought CDs; made mix tapes with that music; driven around the state listening to those tapes until I could listen no more; downloaded music clips from the net; gone over my download limit; driven myself insane trying to convert the format of music clips to a burnable format; made a VCD of music clips; played the VCD until I could play no more; not cleaned the house; bitched about how messy the house is; walked the dog about a zillion kilometres every day; got new loves and rediscovered old loves. I have done everything but sit down and write.
