I could start to make my usual excuses, like "We've had visitors this past couple of days," and "It was my daughter's birthday this week," which would be true, but I also know that they are unrelated to this sad outcome.
The thing is - and herein lies the cause of my current discontent - I was sure, that my eating and my lack of writing anything when I so badly want to be a published writer are related issues, and I admit I was kind of hoping that if I got on top of the eating, the writing thing would just naturally start to happen. It hasn't.
When I don't write, I don't let myself do anything else extra either, because "I really should be writing so I can't possibly take the time to do xyz." So I languish in disorganised chaos at home, just doing routine chores, cooking food, surfing the net, not even blogging much, and feeling like life is on top of me. I hate this. I have wasted so much time like this, and I don't understand why it happens.
I was in town with my daughter on Tuesday, taking her to her dance class, and she started to ask me about my writing. She often does. She knows how badly I want to make it happen. I love my Tuesdays in town with my daughter. I meet her from school, and we walk in together down Micklegate, and first browse the shops, before going for a bite to eat. Dance isn't till 6pm, so we make an outing of it, every week. My daughter had her 13th birthday this week, and already seems more grown up. "What you need to do, Mum," she said "Is treat your writing like a job. Just make sure you're sitting down at the computer at 9am, and then write for the day, or for however long you want to." Wise words indeed. She makes it sound so simple. Why can't I do it? Why does it never happen like that?
My husband goes for the goal setting approach, talking about targets of amounts of words written by certain dates. That's all very sensible and workmanly, and I love the idea - but I don't do it.
Something is wrong. Have I got some weird underachievement disorder? Maybe I don't want it badly enough? Maybe I'm just lazy - a fat slob, a layabout. Shouldn't I get up of my fat arse and get a "proper" job instead? Or at least make a damn good job of being a housewife with a pristine house and immaculate garden, if I'm not going to go out to work? Not only is that NOT my natural inclination, but you see, I should be writing, so I can't possibly do it.
I have wanted this for years. Literally, years. I'm not writing anything erudite, that makes me have to keep stopping and pondering the meaning of life - quite the contrary, my current WIP is aimed at the category historical romantic fiction market. I love those type of stories. They're fun, and I love imagining the settings and creating the characters. Why can't I bloody get on with it?