Why am I stalling? I've been here at my computer for, wow, three hours, reading, tweeting, doing basically nothing, and not opening this window and starting to blog. Why not? I had a couple of ideas of things to write about -- the great story by Stephen Millhauser that I read in the New Yorker this morning. Something else that I can't even remember I've fooled around so long. It may be that I felt pressure to write well about those things, that's why I couldn't get started. I'm keeping in mind what the Pomodoro man said. Fear of not meeting my own expectations causes me to interrupt myself, or in this case prevent myself from even starting.
The trouble with this, what I'm actually writing right now, is that it's the worst sort of drivel that exists in the civilized world. Writing about not writing. And I'm doing it, because, seeing as it's the worst thing there is, I can't possibly not meet that expectation. Not writing is better than this writing. That is a low expectation. I'm not intimidated by that.
Don't want to take this into a "what causes me to be so easily intimidated by expecations" vein. That would be sickening for all parties. Especially my parents, probably. And they don't deserve that. How chickenshit is that to blame my parents for the fact that I sit here in my pajamas and tweet while I should be writing or taking down the Christmas tree? Especially since I now have kids who are mere moments away from being old enough to start blaming their disappointments in life on their mom and dad. Especially mom, of course. Everything is always the mom's fault.
Okay, Christmas tree. Brace yourself. You're coming down.
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