Only ten more days of baseball

I'll be glad when the World Series is over. I've been enjoying the end of the season and the playoffs a great deal -- too much. All I want to do is watch whatever game is on. And the games have been riveting, stupendous. But I can't get anything else done.

More than anything, I haven't been able for the last six weeks to concentrate on my writing. Although I dropped my bookstore job to give myself more time, I have been wasting that time. And the more time I spend away from writing, the worse I feel -- more depressed, more easily intimidated. I just spent a half hour reading pieces on Salon by Ann Marlowe, whom I had never heard of before. When I googled her, I found she was a prolific freelance writer, and this fact just depressed me. Even though her Salon pieces on sex and romance are vague and poorly supported, and I could see myself doing a better job with the same topics, the operative fact is that she had the ideas and got them published. Which is much more than I can say.

I feel like I need someone to come and hit me upside the head and yell, Write, you dummy! Ignore everything else! Just do your work!