My Regime…Er…Regimen

I think I need a regimen.  Ha!  In typing regimen, I typed regime three times.  Is that my brain’s way of telling me something?  I’m afraid to think about what exactly I might do if I had my own regime.  I suppose in a way, I do.  However, a regime is also a system or a way of doing things (at least according to the definition that I hastily looked up online), so perhaps in some odd way they are really one in the same.  Should I think about this more, or am I really just doing the same thing that I’ve been doing for months?  Procrastination, thy name is mine.

Really, I have a plan, a method, a mental checklist that I run through every single moment of every single day; however, the plain fact of the matter is that it just isn’t working for me.  Or, at least, the one that I have laid out right now doesn’t necessarily work for what I want to accomplish.  Sure, I get the kids and the husband taken care of, and the house is mostly in order, too.  Yet, me, the things I need to do for myself.  No, no I don’t do those things.  I could blame my predilection for random blog posts, Pinterest, and Castle episodes.  I could excuse myself by saying, “I can watch those DVDs while I clean the kitchen” and “Netflix goes with me anywhere—even the laundry room.”  In the end, though, that doesn’t explain the internet—which I think I’m pretty good about staying off of for the better part of the day.  What I should be doing instead of flitting from blog to blog is writing.  I should be writing.  But it’s so hard.

And it shouldn’t be.

At least I don’t think it should.

I have a few things I could talk about.

  • Boy broke his arm, and is learning new and healthy lessons about coping with and overcoming obstacles.
  • Girl’s two-year-old behavior switched to the three-year old one practically overnight.  Thank goodness.
  • We finally finished the kids’ bathroom project.
  • Thanksgiving is right around the corner, and we are in the midst of the birthdaystavaganza that occurs this time every year.
  • The dreams I’ve been having lately are the things of which mystery books are made, and yet I still haven’t learned to keep that notebook next to the bed—even though I know with every fiber of my being that I will never in a million years remember all the nuanced details that make them work.  But they won’t really work because, face it, dreams rarely ever make any sense once they see the light of day.  Maybe that explains all of those cerebral movies that in the end really make no sense at all no matter how much we want to believe that they exist on a higher level.  Heh.  They really are cerebral.
  • I’m taking a break from hosting Thanksgiving this year.  Gasp!

I reread some of my notes the other day from the weekend at the spa and I came across the note I made concerning Claire Cook’s take on her writing regimen (had to think about the spelling again there): two pages a day, nothing else until she gets those pages written.  It’s like exercise.  Skip one day and two or three are sure to follow.  And that is where I have lost my way.

See, as circularly ridiculous as this entire post is—and we all know I like to talk in circles from time to time—it comes back to this one thing: I need to sit down and write every day.  I can’t stop getting everyone ready in the morning or stop paying attention to the munchkin, but I can keep myself from other distractions until I get my writing done.  The laundry can wait and so can that Castle episode.  The question is where do I work it all in?

 

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