At a meeting with a friend this morning, I mentioned the book I've been working on.
"Which book?" she asked.
"You know," I said, "the one about the mothers and writing."
"Oh, that," she said, "I thought you finished it last summer."
"No, I finished a draft that week in August when I went away to write."
"You were so excited about finishing. I thought it was, like, done."
My friend is not a writer.
"Well, you see, I put the book away when I came home," I said, "and got all caught up in my work schedule and I didn't look at it until I made this new commitment to work on it every day for an hour."
"Oh," she said, looking distinctly blank, unimpressed.
"Right," I said. And thought: go ahead, rub it in.
She had just been talking about how productive she's been lately--refinancing, applying for a new job, doing her taxes.
We sat in silence for a few moments.
"So, what else is going on?" she asked.
"Nothing much." I shrugged.
I didn't say that I spend so much of my time working with other people on their writing that I don't get to my own. I'm done with that excuse.
And I wasn't about to confess to her that I am a binge writer, a sprinter, a deadline-driven writer, that to write every day is, for me, a monumental achievement. She wouldn't understand. I mean she finished her taxes already and it's not even the middle of March.
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