That morning coffee is a great time for reflection. I loved that first cup of the day where I’d savor the rich aroma and wonderful taste. If the weather was nice, I might have sat outside my kitchen and enjoyed the sunrise. But it’s cold now. And I gave up coffee with my last endoscopy, along with tomato sauce and bacon. Ugh… what’s the point of it all?
Slowly but surely changing lives strips away all the small things that link moments together that keep us busy.
I don’t do the laundry anymore. I stopped cooking when it became easier to bring in meals. Between shopping and what I’d end up throwing out by the end of the week, it seemed monumentally wasteful to purchase food I wasn’t going to eat. Nothing comes in small enough packages, even those individual peanut butter cups last two meals, except, I gave up bread to eliminate carbs… and peanut butter, because… you know… the acid reflux thing.
You can only shop for shit so much and when the closets are fit to bursting and you’ve found you’ve bought the same shoes twice, you realize the futility of that, too.
I don’t understand, when it was two of us in the house, I still brought in food, never did the laundry, and other than adding taking out the garbage to my side of the chores, nothing much has changed there, but somehow, I managed to squeeze in the time to write a book every few months.
Why, now with more time on my hands, and no one to pull me away from the laptop, I have nothing to write? I can find a million useless time-suckers to pull me away from writing.
Somehow I became a master at delaying, procrastinating, avoiding Google Doc as if it were the plague.
You can check your bank balance, get lost in the many threads of Goodreads, even spend half a day reading dozens of articles on Medium. There’s the ever popular rank check on Amazon, and trust me, if you’re marketing over seventy books, that can take awhile.
For a long time, I could read reviews for hours, hopping from book to book, making sure to like them so the good ones rise to the top. See, not everything is a waste of time.
There’s the television. I never watched it. Yesterday, I saw fourteen episodes of Mom. I don’t know why I sat on my couch for all that time. My computer was open beside me, and I ignored it despite all the bleeps and dings reminding me to come back.
If you asked me what all those half-hour plots were about, I can’t tell you, except, Hi. I’m Chrissy and I’m an chocoholic, or maybe it was an alcoholic.
When all else fails it’s emoji time. That means creating the appropriate avatar to your mood and writing everyone in your phone and by the time they respond, your stomach takes over and reminds you to eat.
I know a lot of women my age are playing Mah Jong. Games can last for hours. I guess I’m glad I never spent the time learning it because that would probably be an epic time-sucker!
There are car time-suckers. Did you check the wiper fluid, gas up, stop at that store to buy that thing you don’t need. Even though it’s December, it’s never too early to start the holiday shopping, for next year. Just thinking about it is a time-sucker.
There’s always somebody, usually another writer willing to sit a gab for a bit on the phone. We complain, commiserating about our work loads, and not having time to finish it. Then, the conversation shifts and we slyly compare how many words we’ve added to that slowly growing manuscript, snickering when we realize we’ve somehow managed to do more than the next guy.
It’s only until you overhear an interview with Stephen King where he admits he writes six pages a day.
What?! Six pages a day! The most prolific and probably successful author writes only six pages a day. I can do that! Anybody can do that. If only we didn’t have all those time-suckers!