Over the past few years, I've fallen into a rut. Not a horrible rut; still, a rut.
I enjoy my social life, enjoy my friends, enjoy the new friends I've made... but there is a void. I'm living a pretty normal life... but not a "writing life." Not a life in which I'm improving myself or my craft.
I never thought I'd settle for "I'm settling," but that's what started to happen.
Oh, things aren't desperate! We've already committed a lot of money to the theater, and that's a nice change. In fact, I'll be seeing so many Sondheim 80th Birthday Tributes
this spring that I'll probably feel
80 before it's over. But that's not enough.
Here's where I need you to help: call out my bullshit. Three (well, two and a half) things:
1. I have to write again. And I have to get to work on the '20s novel I've been talking about -- but not writing -- for years. By March 1, call me out on that. I need to write Chapter One by the end of February. Demand the chapter, if necessary. Because without pressure, I'll probably ride another year on talk without action.
2. This is less easy for you to validate, but pressure me to get my ass to the gym. My huge, exponentially growing ass that almost has its own zip code, that is.
3. Something else I can't remember. When I do, I'll share. (That's the half.)
So leap in and help a brother out. I need the peer pressure. Living in the lap of luxury and indulging in other cliches has been divine, but I need to get back to work.