I think I'm a serial blogomaniac. I keep at least four blogs, three twitters, two gallery sites and a partridge in a pear tree. This is one of those telltale signs that I still have writer's block, five days past deadline. Opening FinalDraft has become my most tortuous endeavor, ranking higher even than the morning-after mirror (you know what I'm talking about, a pint of vodka and an evening of sloppy karaoke) or the bathroom scale.
So I become extremely productive at managing e-mail, online networking, scheduling and rescheduling. My friends all know how well I'm doing and I'm coming up with some fairly convincing lies about how productive I've been. I've documented some very urbane and essential things using 140 characters or less. There's a picture of a cat with text on it that was not there before.
I think the mark of a great writer is not the volume or quality of output, but sheer talent in staving off inspiration. I mean, after all, a doctor prides themselves on taking from their patients perfectly good complaint material. Restaurants exist because some dude really needed a way to dirty dishes. I will one day be thought of as a great writer simply because of my ability to not only ignore my muse, but run screaming from it at every possible opportunity.
The lesson: You can't pull any muscles doing mental gymnastics. Healthy rationalization is the key to a long and over-productive life.
love
-C
