I cannot write.
This is not a confidence or self-pity issue. I physically cannot write for any extended period of time because I have two stitches in my left palm.
I’m okay. I was hanging Christmas lights on my mom’s house when the ladder gave way beneath me. It was a crappy ladder, which evidently was not firmly planted on the grass. (I blame some unseen divot.) So, the fall was epic, and I ended up with broken glass in my hand.
The injury is more annoying than anything because, honestly, who the hell falls off a ladder? I can’t wash dishes. Can’t shower without a bag on my hand. It takes me longer to dress. The worst part is my inability to write since, after last month’s productivity during NaNoWriMo, I have the urge to keep going, which got me thinking:
We so often make excuses for not practicing our craft, but nothing is more frustrating than a couple of stitches or someone else taking away our writing time.
This annoyance stems from the misunderstanding that writing is a discipline that we can control under our own terms. Just as we serve the story, we serve the craft as well.
This is a blue-collar job. You get up and put in the time no matter what. No excuses. That way, when life throws you a curve and you have to take some time off, you can be proud of the work you’ve done up until that point.