Yesterday I got up at nine o' clock to sign my new lease and start moving my crap into my new apartment. I'm in tech for the rest of the two weeks left on my old lease, so the good bulk of things had to move yesterday. As in, had to.
I slipped on ice and ripped the crap out of my upper thigh muscle. But I had to keep going.
Then I got an allergic reaction when I touched the base for the bed. It was metal. I have a stupid condition that makes me break out in hives whenever I touch metal. It makes life interesting. And makes my skin feel like I want to rip it off.
Then I slipped on the stairs. Then my dad (who was helping me) started yelling. Then we realized we still had nine more trips to make.
But we had to keep going.
And today when I went into work, I had to keep walking. I had to keep using those sore muscles.
And now I sit in my semi-empty, box-riddled apartment, trying to muster the energy to write.
I know I should. I made it through the move. I've thought about the book enough. Alex yells at me nearly every fifteen minutes from cyberspace. And yet it is 9:47 at night, and I've been procrastinating since I arrived home at 6:30.
I share this story with you, because as you may have figured, I'm pushing myself to write this blog. It's not my book, but it's something. It's a little time out of my day that I sit down and type type type, even if it isn't good. Ray Bradbury taught me that, although I never met him. Find a word, then decide what word goes with that word, and then go for it.
Granted, not every one of those words that cross your mind will be brilliant, but you must write.
As I told someone today, "If you put it off until tomorrow, it'll never get done."
Sometimes there isn't a tomorrow. Sometimes you just have a stack of heavy boxes and a fucked up leg, and you have to keep going.