If you see me, and I’m breathing, it means I am writing everything all at once. I am always writing comics scripts. I’ve got one to an artist, one about to go to an artist, and another one I just remembered is with the fourth potential artist on the project. I’m hoping this time it clicks.
I am writing a novel. Stuck on Chapter 4, but I’m writing it.
I am writing a dissertation. I am always writing a dissertation. It hovers over me, constantly, like a spooky ghost, except instead of the wailing undead, it is the throat-clearing coming from an academic book on multimodal discourse analysis stuffed in some deep dark corner of a too heavy backpack.
I am writing a graphic novel adaptation of a a “grim fantasy” novel and a graphic novel adaptation of a short mystery story and this blog post, obviously, but I’m feeling guilty about that last one, by which I mean this one here.
Because I don’t have time to write this blog post. That sounds like a douchey thing to say, perhaps, oh, I’m so BUSY, let me just get this frappachino while texting and tweeting and speaking on blue tooth because I am SUCH the big fucking deal.
But, seriously, I feel guilty about writing something because I should be writing something else. And something else. And something else. Until I get a brain anyuerism in the shape of an M.C. Escher landscape.
I’ve been waiting on notes from one thing for like a year, and the diss is going on 6 years in the making. One comic has been in the works since the mid-2000s and another I made up and wrote the first issue for last month. I am always in the process of thinking about, worrying about, avoiding thinking about because of the worry, dreaming about, and stressing about writing.
Because I need to get things done. Like this blog post. This blog post is in my way.
Well, it was.
Back to writing all the other everything.