*There will be no post next Friday, April 20. The next post will appear 4/27/12. (Coincidence. Really.)
Today, for the first time since starting this blog almost a year ago, I’m posting on Saturday. Not just that, but Saturday afternoon.
What’s happened? Has all my discipline gone out the window?
Let’s back up.
I started this blog almost a year ago, during Meghan Ward’s class on social media, offered through the S.F. Writers’ Grotto. I wrote my first blog for a Friday, and ever since, I’ve kept to that schedule, channeling Meghan’s advice about a regular schedule yielding continuity of habit and—one hopes—readers. I’ve taken off a few Fridays, but have alerted my readers and returned when I said I would.
I’m not congratulating myself. I’m leading up to why, yesterday, I posted nothing—not even an explanation, this week, that I wouldn’t be posting. On Friday, that is. Because here it is, Saturday.
I tend to get apocalyptic about any change my writing routine, especially that which could be seen as slippage. One missed Friday and I’ll never blog again. Pretty soon, all stop all reaching out to a wider writing world and limiting my social-media time to keeping tabs on the Facebook group dedicated to Tiburon Natives. Remember Alice, the bus driver? You bet I do! I’ll start missing hours, days, of writing. I’ll become a fraud.
As I got in bed Thursday night, I anticipated a free day in front of me to write. This felt especially exciting because it meant I could use the space I’ve sublet at the Grotto Annex, on Sanchez Street.
Once I got the blog done.
“Why don’t you write your blog on Saturday? That way, you can have all day at the Annex just for your novel?” my love suggested.
Because I’m crazed about structure and believe that the slightest chink will bring the whole edifice crashing down. If I’m going to maintain the blog discipline (never mind the reasons why), I can’t cave even a little.
Oh, yes, I can. (Thank you, love, for helping me see that.)
I had a wonderful five hours at the Annex, wi-fi turned off, in my small subletted space, a former utility porch where I have no investment in the pale aqua walls, the unspackled nail holes and dirt smudges, the bubble of paint that might mean water damage. There, the pounding of a hammer outside doesn’t make me wonder what the neighbors are doing. I’m blissfully uninvested in the space, other than what I get done there. And, on Monday, I’ll be back.
What writing habits do you fear changing? When is adaptation helpful? How do you balance online time with (ahem) real work time?