For once, I jumoed out of bed. No resistance. No complaints. I thought I would be tired but although I was slightly groggy, I managed to drag myself to the other room.
I had gone to bed with ideas swirling through my head, and was actually looking forward to write (a new strange anticipation).
Sat down. Nothing. Saw the clock, promised myself 30 minutes. Tapped out a few words, deleted, tapped few more, deleted some more, tapped few more, glanced at the word count and was dismayed to see a 59 word count and 10 minutes elapsed.
I realized, I was trying to force the words because I want my first work to be about Ziba, but the start is the same. My mom and 2 sisters started Ziba beauty in Little India with a 500 square foot box of a store and a $2000 credit card. I get caught up in describing the initial scene and then nothing. I have to admit to myself that I need a new setting because I have used the same one for so long, it doesn’t even seem real to me.
Worse, my writing time went down. Glanced at clock every 2 minus and instead of 30 minutes, barely managed 15 minutes and compromised by adding another 15 minutes doing this journal.
Still unsure as when I will do the next time. My instinct says to do it twice a day. Once I wake up and once before going to bed, but I suspect that its being vague in order to avoid committing so for now I will commit to myself to write twice a day. Just gotta commit.