Gratuitous complaining in lieu of work
Apr. 13th, 2005 01:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rhondacrockettI should really be slogging through an analysis of "A December Vision" right now. But the mere thought of it makes my whole being rebel. Seriously, I have never felt such a physical reaction before. My body goes like lead, my arms feel too heavy to lift, my shoulders sag. When I head towards the library all my organs feel pushed back in the opposite direction to where I'm going, and though my legs move, I know it's under duress. It's like there's a huge magnet behind me and everything inside me is getting pulled back towards it. And when I'm sitting at my work, the leaden feeling moves to my thought processes. Every sentence - every word - is a fight, like wading through earthquake rubble suspended in treacle. Thinking what I can say next makes me feel ill, and getting something on paper gives me no relief because I'm always dissatisfied with it. I'm uneasy about the whole paper because everything feels disconnected, and I don't know whether everything I have in it is relevant or adds anything to my argument.
I am making progress. I have 24 pages, and material enough to get it to 30 (though I'm debating about leaving out something I was planning to do, as being irrelevant). It's just that everything in me would rather be doing anything than making progress. Only the pig-headed stubbornness of the part of me that knows I have to get this done, and wants to get this done so I don't have to feel this leadenness, keeps me at work, and that tires out quickly. I check my watch all the time, longing for it to get to lunch-time, or to 4 o'clock, so I can kid myself that the day is over.
Today, I haven't even bothered to push myself so far; I've just quit. I'm gonna make a brief start on the research for my next chapter instead. That way, I can convince myself I'm still working, so it's ok to not be writing.
I am making progress. I have 24 pages, and material enough to get it to 30 (though I'm debating about leaving out something I was planning to do, as being irrelevant). It's just that everything in me would rather be doing anything than making progress. Only the pig-headed stubbornness of the part of me that knows I have to get this done, and wants to get this done so I don't have to feel this leadenness, keeps me at work, and that tires out quickly. I check my watch all the time, longing for it to get to lunch-time, or to 4 o'clock, so I can kid myself that the day is over.
Today, I haven't even bothered to push myself so far; I've just quit. I'm gonna make a brief start on the research for my next chapter instead. That way, I can convince myself I'm still working, so it's ok to not be writing.
