Anyone else have this problem? The one where you call yourself a writer and yet you can’t get a Christmas card out the door to save your life? Here it is December 19, and gaily-colored pen has not yet touched festive paper.
I’d like to think it’s related to the phenomenon of the New York City writer who suffered a paralyzing three-day block trying to compose the perfect “No radio in car, don’t bother breaking in” sign. (Another possibly apocryphal story, but a good one nonetheless.) Or it may be that part of me thinks my deadline is just too far in the future. I think that in the back of my mind, I’m telling myself I can just put on a pot of coffee Christmas Eve, pull an all-nighter, and still make the December 25 drop-dead date.
Looks like it’s New Year’s cards again for me this year.
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