It's ponderous

How bad is my commitment to writing when even my pondering gets put off?

Earlier this year I bought four binders and I printed off every bit of writing on each of my partial novels. I used pretty coloured Post-It Notes to flag pages, indicating scene, character or plot point. Each chapter or part there of was set out chronologically, with duplicate and re-worked scenes highlighted in bright fuscia, green or yellow depending on its quality.

Most of that writing was done two or three years ago or longer. Some of it is very good. Compelling, structured well, interesting, funny . . . all in all, very readable. As I looked it over, I wondered how I ever got to the point where, rather than actually put fingers to keyboard or pen to page, I'd rather think about writing and fool myself that this organizational stuff has something to do with writing.

But, at least back then I was doing something. Reading my own words served to motivate me and I started thinking about writing again, but the thinking never really moved forward to concrete production.

When I'm drifting off to sleep at night bits of stories waft in and out of my consciousness and I try to grasp them. I promise myself that I'll remember them when I wake up and put them down on paper. But, if I remember them (which I sometimes have), I seldom bother to find a pen or rush to the computer.

I wonder if it's writer's block or lack of confidence. It isn't that I haven't any ideas. Often I'm thinking of scenes or dialogue. If I'm thinking of them, I can't be blocked. But then when I have made my way to the computer to set them down on the word processor, it's like I freeze.

Well, at least I can still write about writing -- or am I writing about not writing?

Oh well. At least I'm still thinking.