Those which bump

I need a muse.

Maybe not a muse.  Maybe a fat guy with a whip.  And a scar below his left eye.  And a computer from 1995 that won't install any program but a word processor.  And a broom closet void of external influences.

Or discipline.

NaNoWriMo is going to kick my ass and yet I am still slothfully underwriting as the days of October tick by.  Excuses, I have them, but what good are they?  What good would they do me to rattle them off like a display of ornate paper walls.  Maybe some are stronger than others, but in the end, they're useless, stupid devices built to make me feel better about a presupposed failure.  I don't want excuses.  I want drive - conviction to charge through and make writing a habit rather than a faint dream I consider on my drive home from work before dwindling the hours of my evening away with nonsense.  

I can do it.  I want to do it.  I need to do it.  Ability, desire, necessity.  What's missing?  Or is there something added on top that's spoiling the mix?   Doubt?  Angst?  Fear?  Laziness?   Perhaps it's just a matter of empowering the positive to diminish the negatives rather than attempt to remove them entirely - to quiet the imp of self-loathing in my head and press on.

I wish I could drink.