July 1st . . . already?

So, earlier in the year, I made monthly goals and then reported on those goals, mostly writing-related.  It was actually pretty effective in getting me off my doughy behind and making me do things when I didn't really want to do them.  It didn't hurt that I had a friend who was working on his own (public) goals, and I could encourage myself by encouraging him.

Then, things changed.  I got a big audio assignment (and a nasty, smaller one), and decided to curtail my writing activities in favor of those.  May and June would be dedicated to finishing those obligations, and I told myself that then, in July, I would be a writer again.

And as Big said on several occasions this year, a writer is someone who . . . writes . . . every . . . day.

But today is July 1st, the start of a new month, the opportunity to be that thing again that does that thing again.  And I really don't want to.

I took my notebook to lunch with me, as I did during my prodigious writing days this past winter, and instead of toiling on my work in progress, I jotted down a couple of ideas for an abandoned short story from a year or two ago that I thought about turning into a novel.*

Now, the day is close to done, and I haven't done any more writing (not the kind where I can count up the words and boast about them, which was what I told myself I'd do every day in July).  In fact, I was tempted to watch television--a vice I almost never engage in--until the whole night was gone.

What's wrong with me?  Besides, the obvious, I mean.  When Big was here, he and I would delight in railing against that long-standing notion that doing something for x days in a row would make it an unbreakable habit, because we both discovered that that particular lie did not apply to writing.  But at least we had each other to complain to.

Now, though, I'm on my own, and I couldn't even manage to write one day in a row??  That's awfully pathetic, even by my own standards.

What should I do?  Publish this abortion of a blog post, then open Word and force myself to write a few words, so that I can say tomorrow, "Well, I wrote yesterday.  The least I can do is do it again."?

Shit, maybe I will.

Rish Outfield, Writer?

P.S.  Well, it isn't much, but I did write for a few minutes, and it wasn't nearly as painful as it could've been.  So, here we are:

Words Today: 285
Total Words: 285

*I am nearly finished reading a Young Adult novel by an esteemed, acclaimed, and prolific writer, and I'm absolutely hating it.  Time after time, I'd angrily tell the ether, "Okay, that's Strike Two.  One more strike and this sucker gets tossed across the room."  But I'd keep going, due to a martyr complex or something.  Because even though I loathe the book, I'm fully aware that its author is a better writer than I am.  If he is capable of such middling, cringe-worthy, sub-ordinary work . . . holy San Salieri, what does that make of my own writing?  Of me, who would rather clean a fishtank than put pen to paper?