I cannot write. Not here, not in my journal, not on napkins as I once used to. Not anywhere. At least I had a small break from nonwritingness and managed to finish The Book and submit it. It's been a month since the publisher sent me an email -- "starting primary edits" it said -- and I haven't heard anything since. Perhaps it's take really long for primary edits. Perhaps it takes longer when the MS sucks. Perhaps publisher is looking for a (gentle) way to tell me it cannot be published.
I cannot seem to be able to do anything. Partner gifted me a new sewing machine as a finish-the-bloody-book present. I've made some stuff -- couple of dresses for me and some pants for Mia. But now again I am in unmotivated land.
I've made a Christmas cake -- same recipe as last year except it didn't fall on the floor this time...or hasn't so far. I'm going to make some mocha cookies soon. And that's it. Last year I made chocochip cookies and truffles and packed them in hand-made boxes. This year - unmotivationalism.
I got a single opportunity to write an article for a magazine -- Indian one -- and I refused it. Can't write, no time and other stuff.
Speaking of no time -- my house looks like a pig sty. Only pigs like their homes. I cannot keep it clean. And anything I do -- bake, cook, sew -- only dirties it further.
Now I cannot finish this post. I've started so many posts over the last couple of months but somewhere around the second paragraph, it's delete. Or save for later. And the later never comes.
I don't know what's happening.
Oh well. Today's the first day of Mia's potty training. Or non-training. So far all we have achieved is a sudden, definite preference for being nappy-less, announcing pee-pee-pee very loudly while pointing to nether regions and when I run to her, all excited, she scuttles away cackling gleefully. She doesn't get it that poo-ing is serious business.
