A few years ago, I was, uh, “involved” in a major motorcycle crash that, incidentally, destroyed my favorite Harley ever. It also broke my arm nastily (think “extra joint”); nearly put out an eye (saved by Oakley), scarring my otherwise flawlessly complected (it’s a word) brow in the process; and fractured the sides of my knees, as well as my sacrum. I couldn’t walk for a while, mainly because of the sacrum, which is the most painful thing you can break, at least in my experience, because while the hip bone may indeed be connected to the thigh bone, every damn bone is connected to the tailbone. Five months of physical therapy later found me largely returned to functional, having accumulated a bunch of new scars to add to my prodigious collection. (The one on my knee looks like an autopsy scar, which naturally makes it my favorite.)
There is sort of a point to that story, in that I liken my current situation to the physical therapy stage. I have done very little on the project for the last few months, for…reasons, and…
Fine; here’s the reasons. To make a long, largely dull, and tedious-to-live-through story fairly short: a few months ago I realized that my carefully formed habit of writing every day, as documented in the early entries in this blog, had become a rut. Not so surprising, really, given that the habit had lasted me a good 18 months and seen a thousand-plus solid pages written: a complete first draft, with a good 2/3 of the manuscript brought up to a 2nd-3rd+ draft level. But a rut is a rut, and my productivity was in the toilet. I’ve always been a proponent of productive obsession, but sometimes you just have to pop your head up or something will grab your hair and do it for you. I, of course, waited till something did it for me: specifically, the obvious fact that it was time for me to make some major lifestyle changes.
To be continued…
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