One of the roughest parts of getting through a day is the realization that not matter what you do, nothing seems to motivate you. Soda? Not working. Exercise? Not working. Two ounces of coke off of a prostitute’s ass (okay, metaphorically, but still…)? Not working.
Though I’ll forgive Charlie Sheen for the advice. He really did have good intentions.
Writing is both a joyful escape from reality and a big, nasty chore that sometimes you really don’t want to do. It combines that wonderful, freeing “I’m a writer!” feeling with the crushing realization of “Crap, now people want more books and I’m tapped out at the moment.” Which is a good thing, people.
Well, the people wanting more books part at least. Being tapped out sucks.
So… self-motivation is needed, but you’re all out of ideas. What do you do?
Me? I crank up the music, drink lots of soda,
snort massive amounts of coke from a hooker’s ass and get to work (editor’s note: what the hell is he doing today? Coke? Hooker’s? How big was that royalty check, anyways?) on the latest project.
This was all in jest, naturally. I can’t afford a hooker.