Stuck

When I left school last February, knowing that I wouldn't be returning for nearly a year, I thought the time would never pass. I remember thinking that I'd finish chemo in the spring, have—and then recover from—surgery over the summer, and spend the fall in a perfect balance of activities designed to prime me for the onslaught that would hit in mid-January and not let up until I graduated four months later.

I figured I'd audit a class or two, intern a couple of days a week at a major publication, do some freelance editing work to help pay the bills, pitch a few stories to nab my first byline, and, when I wasn't eating right or exercising, start and finish my master's project.

Yeah, well, it seemed reasonable at the time.

For someone who's not terribly interested in fame or fortune, I tend to be surprisingly ambitious (where "ambitious" = a nicer way of saying "completely deluded").

So here I am, a week before I'm due back on campus, with the deadline for the first draft of my master's project staring me in the face. So much for getting a head start.

I have actually done a fair bit of work on it—not as much as I had hoped or expected, but probably a lot more than a rational person could have hoped or expected. And I know that I just need to sit down and bang it out.

We have to write three drafts in all, with the deadlines spaced a month apart, so I should be able to just get something down on paper, freed from the self-imposed pressure to make it perfect. Because it can't be perfect, by definition. No matter what, I've got to revise it twice.

But for whatever reason, I'm not ready to write.

I wish, I wish, I wish I were ready. I wish I could break it down and do a thousand words a day for the next four days and then spend another day editing and polishing and proofreading.

Or I wish I could force myself to type up all of my interview notes to date, because I know from experience that that is exactly the kind of catalyst I need to get going. And what could be easier than sitting down and transcribing interview notes? It's about the most mindless exercise you can imagine, like sorting laundry or flossing teeth.

But for days now, I haven't been able to do even that.

And that means that I am setting myself up for a very unpleasant weekend, and an even more unpleasant—and sleepless—night before the deadline.

Extra stress and more fatigue—about the last things in the world that I need right now.

I know all of this, and still I can't open my notebook and start typing from it.

I can't explain it.

I don't understand it.

But I'm trying to accept it.

Maybe tomorrow will be different.

Please, please, please let it be different.