The problem with turning 29 is that you’re not 21 anymore. I didn’t even go out in any spectacular fashion this past weekend. I stayed out too late, granted, but it’s not like anything was ingested outside of beer. Just beer. That’s all. And the whole weekend was pretty much shot. I’m getting old.
Anyway, at some earlier point a few months ago I wondered if I was getting cocky because of this project. I can say with quite a bit of conviction, that I am. Maybe. How’s that for conviction. Basically since my whole weekend was torpedoed I didn’t get any work done on my story. And today was a complete waste, and I’m sitting here right now opting to be a lump on my couch rather than try to get through a paragraph or two of fiction. And it’s because I’m being a baby. Sort of. Truthfully I think writing on a hangover is just about the worst thing ever and I think the results are usually not so great. Although, I used to think writing a story in two weeks was impossible and I’ve proven myself wrong there, so it’s always important to keep in mind that I don’t know anything. But I’m pretty sure that since I can’t keep a thought straight in my head that probably means any attempt at writing a story now would be disastrous. So really I’m postponing my start to tomorrow in hopes that this will result in higher quality. Which is preposterously cocky.
The “Maybe” part of that, however, comes from the fact that I, for the first time in while, have a plot for my story instead of just a feeling. Which is nice. Which I think makes the going easier. Which is why maybe I’m not being cocky and I’m just making the safe choice. It’s hard to say.
My point here is that I’m going to stop typing because even my non-fiction is gibberish.