Today’s another great day to do nothing. After waking up late, I piddled around the Castle before venturing out into the gray afternoon. I took another long walk to Columbia City and after eating half a pizza, I returned to editing my story. Unlike some of my other short stories where I struggled to put enough words down to tell a story, in this one I wrote a lot and it’s been challenging to distill all of it into a coherent story. There’s been a lot of cutting, cutting and pasting, and rewriting, and I’m still only on the second page. I’ve slowed down a bit once I got through the first part where I felt I did my best writing. I’m still working through the middle part, trying to put it in order and breath a little of the voice into it. I still have hopes of finishing it tomorrow, but it greatly depends on how much effort I can devote to it.

While walking to Columbia City (as evidence of my terrible shape, my shins were soar from the walking I did yesterday—who ever heard of sore shins?), a realization knocked me in the teeth. While I pay lip service to writing, when I look back at the number of hours I spend on writing, and compare it to the number of hours I spend doing nothing or complaining about doing nothing, the numbers are staggering. That wasn’t my realization. I have spoken often about how much I complain and meta-write verses how much I actually write. The realization was that “the key to overcoming distraction is suffering.” It seemed much more important and groundbreaking before I look at it in all its glory through the light on the screen, but it does hold some truth.

Right before I delved into it, bam, distraction hit me. I fought down the urge to slam the computer and walk home. Night has almost risen, and I have a long walk ahead of me, but that’s not why I wanted to leave. I wanted to leave because the writing was becoming difficult, which was the suffering I was talking about. I felt the squeezing of my brain as I tried to get at my mental juices, and the squeezing was painful—not in the headachy way, but in the OT way. If I want to sit down and write for eight hours, and I do, I really, really do, I have to get over the pain of doing it.

It’s not always painful. There are days when I can’t type fast enough to get the words down. The first day I wrote TFTS, I was exhausted from the traveling, change in schedule, and waking up early, but when I started writing my brain flew out millions of miles in front of my fingers. It was great. When I wrote the next three days, however, that feeling vanished. For whatever reason, the words were stuck, and putting anything on paper was a chore. I fought through it and ended up putting enough down to start the edit, but none of it flew freely. I’m not sure if the reasons relate to my moods, the time of day, or the location of Venus in the heavens, but I wish I could figure it out. If I did, I imagine there would be less pain and more writing.

And here I lose out. I’m closing up my computer and heading back. I’m disappointed, but I do have a long walk—and it hurts, and I’m not used to the pain. I’ll finish this when I get home (hopefully).

The walk home was more difficult than I expected. The first half way fine, but when I arrived at the store and bought groceries, I realized how tired I was. I eventually made it home, thanks to a late blooming second wind and a blueberry smoothie. I’ve lit the fire and now I’m settling down for some more writing and editing. Not surprisingly, it started raining as I walked home: a light drizzle that I barely felt. I have spent the last few hours editing, so at least it hasn’t been a completely wasted day.