The thing about being crap is that you know, I mean really know, that you’re doing it.
But this knowledge doesn’t help you.
It’s not like other epiphanies. It’s not like when you think to yourself I’m being an arsehole and then you manage to rein in your arseholeness a modicum so that you are less areshole-like. It’s not like when you are stapling a work colleague’s tongue to the notice board and you get to the end of the staples and think OK, I’ve made my position perfectly clear now and you finally stop.
When you realize you are being crap the being crap continues.
I have two novels to proofread. One for publishing on Kindle the other for sending out to an agent. I need to be writing synopses and "Dear Agent" bum-licky letters. I have other people’s work to read and review. I have shop-bought books to read just because I bought them to read them for pleasure. I need to chase college who, bizarrely, have not yet confirmed that I have passed Sign Language Level 1 even though Level 2 is now so far underway it is pointless me trying to enrol and catch up. I have chores around the house – not particularly big chores – that need my attention. I have vague ideas for new writing projects that need solidifying, sharpening. I need to be thinking about Christmas presents. I have bills to pay. I have stuff that needs... stuffing.
But I’m doing none of these things.
I am being crap.
I feel like a severed tongue. I’m just lying here without any discernible means to move myself and I probably have poor taste to boot.
It could be post-novel writing blues. It could be pre-winter SAD. It could be sheer laziness or just inspiration famine.
But I am being crap.
And I am being crap very well indeed.
See. I knew I wasn’t a complete loser.