WARNING: DO NOT READ THIS IF PROFANITY OFFENDS YOU.
I woke up this morning and after checking e-mails and updating my company website, I realized I’d not written a single word the day before on my novel. And I only realized this as I went to put today’s date in my writing chart.
Why is this a big deal?
Because after reading the War of Art, I swore to myself I was a professional. That I’d work on my novel every single day. That I’d monitor my progress through a writing chart.
So, since April 28th, I’ve done that.
Now, it’s true that yesterday was a Wednesday, and Wednesdays are my worst day of the week. On Wednesday, we have our newspaper’s deadline, and I usually have to work about sixteen hours and don’t finish till midnight.
It’s also true that I did write a blog post yesterday, which is an important part of my plan to make it — marketing, right? And it’s finally also true that I went to bed earlier than normal after my wife Danah begged me not to stay up too late — a terrible habit of mine.
But this isn’t on her. It was still 2 a.m., and while I spent much of that two hours researching writing tips from a famous author, I still didn’t write. I failed.
Let me put this a little clearer. Stan Mitchell, you worthless piece of shit. You so-called badass Marine, who once earned Sergeant in almost record time and won a division-wide peer competition award that still defies miracle status.
You. Fucking. Failed. Your past accomplishments don’t matter. There’s only today, and yesterday you operated in the manner of an over-the-hill, fat piece of shit. Nice. You want to work the rest of your life? Just give up on your dreams?
One book is all you got in you, huh? You think you can just write one book and expect to have made it.
You think you can make a promise to yourself — an oath even, even write that shit in a journal you signed your name to — and then twenty days later literally forget to write a few words before you go to bed. Yeah, you worked hard at your job. And yeah, you wrote a short blog post and studied like a silly little bookworm on how to get better. And yeah, you’ve never gone twenty days of not missing a day writing, so good job and all.
No. Bullshit. All that doesn’t matter. You dropped the ball like a loser. You fell short — way short — of the mark. And hey, look above. You’re cussing again. I thought you were dropping that habit, too. Going to blame that one on the Marines, again?
So, let me get this straight. It’s your job’s fault? Your wife’s fault? The Marine Corps’ fault?
Bullshit. No excuses. It’s your own damn fault. You had two hours, and you spent it studying. What, you want to be a professor? Teach silly writing classes. Hell no, you don’t. You want to be a big-time author. And you only achieve that by writing.
What a loser, Stan. Twenty days? That’s the limit of your self-discipline? That’s what you’ve come to? That’s all you had in you?
You’re fucking pathetic. You need to just embrace how weak you are. No wonder you’re not successful yet. I’ve seen ten-year-olds with more discipline.
Now get the hell offline and write. Finish that second book of yours before I rip your fucking face off, you worthless piece of shit.
And on that note, I’m jumping back on my novel.