Struggling

We’re well into October, nearly knocking November’s door. And as usual, I’m struggling to put into words exactly what I’ve been doing all year long. Minutes fold into hours, fold into days, fold into weeks. Before you know it, it’s Saturday again. Before you know it, another month has passed.

They’re putting up Christmas decorations on Orchard Road already. S incredulously commented: “It’s three months away!” Of course, this isn’t exactly right – that’s just me telling her she’s got another three months till Christmas and she really doesn’t need to tell me what she wants for her present this year quite yet.

I’ve been closely following the run-up to the Writer’s Festival and it’s finally here. And I find there’s nothing really interesting I want to attend. There was the whole Neil Gaiman thing, but I’m not a die-hard fan and refuse to line up for hours for a pair of free tickets. No matter how many chances I get. I have singled out two things, and it’s in this singling out that I now find my purpose for the next month.

NaNoWriMo.

I discovered this some years ago and failed. I refused to even attempt it subsequently. Now I’m sitting, a week before it starts, and I’m contemplating it. Why not? There will be a launch party next week which I’ve decided I will attend (I hope – if I can convince others around me to carry on with the usual routine without me). Why ever not, really? I haven’t written a single word in ages. How am I supposed to teach my children perseverance when I don’t have any myself?

Of course, there’s plenty other stuff to think about. All my usual work around the house. Several people ask me why I sleep so little. I am always tired – I need sleep, but I don’t get any. I’m always trying to stay on top of the paperwork that lives and breathes on my desk like a growing amoeba. It spreads – horizontally and vertically – until I cannot stand it anymore and take to it with a brutality that would put a butcher to shame. After all the massive cutting, culling, hole punching and filing, I have a slender stack of outstanding issues that sits neatly before the mousepad. And then it all starts again – the growing, the spreading, the gradual takeover of every inch of table space I have. All in a matter of days. I still don’t get it – why do I get so much paper? Why am I this busy?

Maybe if I didn’t entertain my Facebook account quite as much as I do, I would have better control over this endless cycle. But no – Facebook is an outlet. Frivolity at its best and most convenient. How could I give it up?

Anyway, I run out of time. As always, my days are tightly scheduled. In the house one minute, 10 minutes to sit on the computer and then we’re off getting ready for something else. This time I’m running late. Again.

Writing. I need to find time to write.