This has been an... odd week. Since this seems to be the norm for me, odd weeks that is, I suppose that would mean it's been a normal week. Fun with contradictions, I guess. It's like the Steven Wright joke about an argument at the roulette table over what he considers an odd number.

What I marvel at, though, is how little I actually managed to accomplish. I slept a lot, so there's that. It hardly seems like an accomplishment, in spite of the one semi-lucid dream I managed to have after reading an article on that subject. Not to mention seeing a particularly hilarious episode of Ed about that as well. So there's that, too: I watched some teevee, read a lot and slept a good deal. Oh, and I cooked.

A short list of some things I did not do: Practice the programs I'm supposed to be learning for my PNCA classes; job hunt in any significant volume; meet new people and/or socialize; and, most worrisome, write. Diddly on that front.

One thing that many writers will tell you is that we love doing research. What we hate is actually writing. (The fact that I'm writing an entry here is something of a miracle, though it does mean that I'm avoiding writing anything, you know, productive.) I've got all these ideas floating around, and I'll research them to death, but I don't seem able to actually commit them to paper (or screen, you know what I mean). Which means that they either take up more space in my mental inbox or disappear behind the old mental filing cabinet.

This metaphor is getting really stretched.

It's been a while since I wrote anything of any consequence. I suppose since I stopped columnizing, really. It's odd, though not unexpected, that I get a lot more done when I have a lot to do. At one point, I was working full-time, writing two weekly columns and one monthly one, and doing proposals on top of that. But with the regular gigs (by which I mean the columns and the job) went nealy all of the motivation and a lot of the ambition. I think quite often about how many people I must be letting down, up to and including myself. But I haven't a clue what to do about it. It occurred to me last night, right before I fell asleep, that I am like Wile E. Coyote when he's in a giant rubber band, pulled back and ready to launch: Full of potential energy but no direction (and surely headed for disaster).

I know I must sound horribly depressed, but surprisingly I'm not. After my prolonged illness and the mental toll that took, I am overjoyed to have my health (with one notable exception) back. I am generally in good spirits, at least when it comes to the mundane aspects of life. I enjoy cooking and experimenting with my meals. There's new episodes of West Wing now and then. I have lots of good books and music to catch up on. Still, as I just remembered: I am jogging regularly again, which feels good. It's nice to be making good on my vow that, if I can't be rich, I can be buff, and I finally found a charity that I'm interested in volunteering for, though I have not, as yet, contacted them. I guess I associate "depression" with the inescapable feeling of dread and anxiety, and for the most part I don't feel that, except when I spend too long looking at the classified jobs section. I'm still optimistic, even if reality sometimes disagrees with that assessment.

But the writing, or rather the lack thereof, really weighs on me. It's hard to call myself a writer without a twinge of guilt. A lot of it comes down to a lack of discipline. I have always been motivated by deadlines more than anything else, and there is a total dearth of them right now. The only options, then, to get myself moving is to commit to something or force myself to get on with it. I've tried the latter for too long now, I suppose it's time to do the former. I've got an iron in the fire to that end, but to really get it rolling requires some work on my part, and that, as I've ably demonstrated, is slow going. I suppose snowballs don't start rolling on their own.

Tonight, though, I went to see a sketch comedy group, and while they didn't have me rolling in the aisle like Mr. Show did, they were quite good. More important, it did serve as a reminder that there are goals I have that I've allowed to languish, and its time to do something about it. The only thing stopping me is myself, and I'm getting a little tired of resenting myself for my inactivity.

Speaking of which, it really is bedtime now.