in which two similes break with a metaphor
How are your twenty minutes a day going?
I have fallen into the habit of procrastinating my twenty minutes of writing until approximately ten o'clock every night, when I drag myself into my novel again. [first simile]: I'm at the point where starting the writing process is like folding down the treadmill and lacing up my tennis shoes. Very slowly I walk by, eying the thing, swigging from my water bottle. I find something else to do--folding laundry or the dishes--take your pick of menial tasks.
[unrelated metaphor:] But once I get started, I usually enjoy it, sometimes immensely. Very occasionally the wind unfurls my sails and I stand on the deck and feel free: the elusive writer's high. But sometimes I sort slog through to the other end of my twenty minutes, rowing doggedly. I catch myself checking the clock to see if my time's up.
I do other writing throughout the day, and I suppose [second simile, related to first]: that's like my stretching sessions (which apparently are no longer needed until after running, ruining this entire sentence), when I limber up for the sprint waiting for me. . .inevitably at ten o'clock at night. . .
[no comparisons--just telling it straight:] . . .but the only way I'm going to get this novel done is through sheer bullheadedness.
At least I'm still able to write without being all self-conscious. That will cripple anyone and makes for a terrible narrative.
[close with the non sequitur]: Martin's making black bean soup for dinner. I have one hyphenated word: Ka-boom. Also, yummy.
I have fallen into the habit of procrastinating my twenty minutes of writing until approximately ten o'clock every night, when I drag myself into my novel again. [first simile]: I'm at the point where starting the writing process is like folding down the treadmill and lacing up my tennis shoes. Very slowly I walk by, eying the thing, swigging from my water bottle. I find something else to do--folding laundry or the dishes--take your pick of menial tasks.
[unrelated metaphor:] But once I get started, I usually enjoy it, sometimes immensely. Very occasionally the wind unfurls my sails and I stand on the deck and feel free: the elusive writer's high. But sometimes I sort slog through to the other end of my twenty minutes, rowing doggedly. I catch myself checking the clock to see if my time's up.
I do other writing throughout the day, and I suppose [second simile, related to first]: that's like my stretching sessions (which apparently are no longer needed until after running, ruining this entire sentence), when I limber up for the sprint waiting for me. . .inevitably at ten o'clock at night. . .
[no comparisons--just telling it straight:] . . .but the only way I'm going to get this novel done is through sheer bullheadedness.
At least I'm still able to write without being all self-conscious. That will cripple anyone and makes for a terrible narrative.
[close with the non sequitur]: Martin's making black bean soup for dinner. I have one hyphenated word: Ka-boom. Also, yummy.
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