The more tiny tasks I add to the list, the more they add up, the more they play in my mind, the harder it is to just focus and write the next book. I think time is the one resource that I forgot to account for.
In my rush to get everything done, stay on the schedule I’ve set, I always forget a few very important things: sleep and friends. I stay up late into the wee hours, updating book lists, checking ads, and more. When the next morning rolls around, that meeting with my best friend, the lunch with my husband, and all of those “normal” person things just don’t sound appealing.
And thus, I, as a writer, have become a hermit. This is why writing is such a solitary job. It isn’t because our friends don’t want to know, or don’t want to see us. It’s because we’re so worried about doing a million tiny things that sound unimportant that we forget one big thing. You can’t write if you aren’t living. You can’t isolate yourself from humanity, and then convey the experience of being human through your words. You can’t refuse society and still expect the world to “get” what your writing is trying to convey.
And so, I am trying hard to remember that I need to go outside. I need to laugh over coffee with my best friend. I need to tell crass jokes, tickle my husband, and take my dog for a walk. I need to be me. I can’t let the characters in my head consume me, for that is the path to insanity. I may peer over the edge into that abyss on a regular basis, but I intend to be nothing more than a tourist.