New Couch : The Death of Motivation

I'm not sure exactly why but I haven't been motivated to write since before Christmas. I suppose it might have something to do with the lovely new couch I bought and have not wanted to lift my backside off of since the day it was delivered. After years of slouching on the ages-old green monster until there was an arse-shaped dent the diameter and depth of a meteor crater, I decided that, money permitting or not, it was time to look for something half comfortable. I quickly found a beautiful, reasonably priced, cream-coloured (one of the perks of not having children is that it allows you the luxury of having cream-coloured things) three-seat sofa which I snapped up immediately. I arranged to have it delivered but, in my drunken excitement, I failed to make arrangements to have the green monster removed. The upshot is that for two long weeks I lived with both of them crammed into a living room the size of an egg carton until finally, after calling every charity in the known universe, none of which were remotely interested in an ages-old green couch with a sizeable dent and a large wadge of carpentry glue melded into the upholstery, I wrestled the sucker into the elevator and down four floors to the parking lot. I was sure that someone would be able to use it, after all, the pullout mattress still had plenty of wear left in it, but the lady at the Sally Ann assured me that they don't accept even the most pristine sofa beds due to health codes. You could never be sure what went on in sofa beds, she said. I assured her that none of that had gone on in it, or anywhere else in my apartment for quite some time, to which she replied "I hear ya, sister", chuckled and hung up. I rang the people at city hall and informed them that there would be a large item for pick up on garbage day and the lovely woman who answered the phone seemed quite impressed that I had taken the initiative and warned them. Sadly, she apparently did not relay the message to the bin men as it sat there gathering snow and who knows what else for nine days, a grim reminder of my years of discomfort. I can only assume that the bin men eventually grew tired of looking at it too and finally removed it.

Anyway, my point is that I have hardly written lately. I've scribbled down bits and pieces here and there but my usual drive to get 1000 words a day, even 1000 words of drivel, left me. I told myself that everyone takes some down time after the holidays. It's the de rigeur January slump. But it's now well into February and, if I'm being completely honest, I have just become lazy. I have never had an eight week dry spell. If I don't write for two days I begin to worry that I have dried up and have absolutely nothing to offer the literary fraternity and my time might be better spent writing warning labels on cigarette packets or assembly instructions for cheap bookcases at Ikea. Those of you who have read bits of the Effing Novel From Hell might agree. But the laziness must stop.

I am a firm believer that inspiration is not something that strikes like some divine bolt from the blue. Rather, it comes from hours, often days, of slogging through umpteen pages of shit until one little nugget of truth starts a chain reaction and you're off. No more sitting on my can, watching reruns and stuffing myself with things that are bad for me and lamenting about my utter lack of talent. Time to extract the digit, get out a pen and turn off the television. I have umpteen pages of shit to write.