Well, I am one. That’s not up for debate anymore.
Right before summer vacation I very often envision myself leisurely writing a couple thousand words a day (or one scene a day), hanging out on social media, working out regularly, and generally having the awesome life that I’d have year-round if I didn’t work two jobs (Day job and writing. Yes. Writing is a second job. *stern stare*)
After summer arrives, I realize this life of leisure doesn’t exist. Full-time writers don’t have some calm existence. Why did I think they did? Why did I think *I* would? Instead of packing all of my mad dash word sprints and anxiety and planning into 4-5 hours after work like during the school year, I spread it out over an ENTIRE DAY.
This is literally me every day so far this summer:
And the guilt is insane. I scold myself for not doing something writerly or authorly and agonize over every spare moment that I spend doing something else. Yesterday I wrote nearly four thousand words, and I still felt bad because I technically could have written more. And then of course I told myself all those words were trash.
I was discussing this with Roan Parrish, and it led to the following series of exchanges on Twitter. It turns out, other writers are the same way.
— Liz Friday Jacobs (@somemetaphor) June 9, 2016
— Roan Parrish (@RoanParrish) June 9, 2016
— Karen Stivali (@karenstivali) June 9, 2016
Any tips, suggestions, or commiserations to share with me on coping with this problem?