Chomping At The Bit

Or, as my husband argues it is, champing at the bit (this is along the lines of the discussion we once had about whether Shaggy from Scooby Doo says "Zoiks! or "Zoinks!", but that's another story). I suddenly have a zillion things I want to do, and I can't decide what to do first, which means I'm not doing any of them yet (other than writing this, that is). I'm not talking about big picture things, like visiting Australia, or learning to make a souffle, or other things I'd like to do someday. I'm talking about things to do right now, at any given moment.

I've learned to accept the fact that I'll never be able to read all the books I want to read or see all the movies I want to see, and I'm okay with that. I still read and see a lot. But as a person who is trying to professionally enter a creative field, there are things I want to take in, like going to museums, or listening to music, and the aforementioned reading books and seeing movies, along with the things I want to put out, like this blog, writing letters to friends (yes, I still do that), and...well, writing books. Sometimes I can't decide if I want to curl up with a book or work on another chapter, and sometimes that indecision causes me to do something else entirely instead. Oh, and have I mentioned that I have a very active son who is about to turn three next week? His daily agenda and mine don't always match up. When I'm sitting at the computer, sometimes he's content to lie on the floor and play cars by himself, and sometimes he wants me to join in. It may be different someday when I have publishing deadlines, but for now, it's hard for me to refuse him.

Lately, I've been feeling like a racehorse before a race, when it's restlessly shifting weight from foot to foot as it stands in the gate before they open the door--and chomping at the bit, of course. I'm anxious to be writing! I'm anxious to be reading! I've got a pile of library books that I've renewed a couple of times because I haven't had time to finish them yet (I'm just glad they're not current bestsellers, or I'd have had to return them already), not to mention my overflowing bookshelves with books I keep meaning to read before I borrow any more from the library. On top of that, there are books people recommend to me and new books that I read about. I've been trying to go to more book signings lately, partly because of the books and partly to meet more authors in the children's writing community (okay, I admit that going to the recent Andrew McCarthy signing was purely to appease my inner teenager), but it's made my bookcases overflow even more. And I'm  working on a YA manuscript while my MG is complete for now, but have revision ideas for another book I started years ago and never finished. So when I write, I feel guilty that I'm neglecting my poor, overflowing books. And when I read, I feel guilty that I'm not reworking Chapter 15 or working out a plot kink in Chapter 8. If only I could clone myself...but then I'd probably worry that I was missing out on whatever the "other me" was getting to do.

Bottom line is, I guess I should be happy that I have both the ability and the desire to write--and read. And as long as I can do some of both often enough, then there's no need to feel guilty that I'm not doing the other one. I'll get back to each one soon enough. Slow and steady wins the race, anyway. Just ask the tortoise.