I have  two very important, very ENORMOUS deadlines staring me right in the face, and I’m coming off the holidays, just said goodbye to my Dad who was visiting, and my brainmeats are completely and utterly fried. I mean, just fried.

But I have to write. I have to write now. A lot. I’ve made promises, signed contracts, and this is where the discipline part of the job needs to kick in and I just have to get this done.

Ugh.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am not a blockbuster author. I have the talent, I’m sure of that. I’ve been told that. I’m not JK Rowling. Stephen King or Ray Bradbury, here, but hell, I’m a decent read. Certainly better than a lot of crap out there. What I’m not, however, is disciplined, and that’s what makes the difference between a working writer and somebody who just likes to write.

I like to write. I love to write. I can’t not write. Except when I really have to, apparently.

Ugh.

I’ll be over here, pounding my head against this giant concrete block.