I was just a moment ago looking at my dishes. I have a cake pan in the sink that needs to be washed so I can return it to my mother-in-law this afternoon. Also dishes piled up in stacks and towers. I looked, then fled!
But then I was thinking, you know, I was freaking out because I have a yucky cake pan in the sink. It wasn’t so much the stacks, it was the stuff sitting in the sink that I had to get out of my way. And it’s not that much stuff, really. I just have to move that stuff out of the way so I can get started with dishes. Just a small thing. But it’s like this huge psychological barrier – finding an excuse to shirk dishes, I grab it and make it a big thing.
Of course I do the same thing with the novel. Such agony to face a single piece of paper and start marking it up. But once I start, I get going, and once I get going, it's much better.
Yet each time I hate it and it drives me crazy, even though the results are invaribly good. Strange.
On the CD player: "Dang Me" by Roger Miller.