Thinking About Doing Something ≠ Action

Following yesterday's Amusing Myself post, and keeping with what's been on my mind recently, I've been considering the difference between what I've been thinking about doing and what I really have been doing.

Thus, the title: Thinking about doing something does not equal Action.

I keep thinking about my weight and my general physical shape. I wouldn't be surprised if large portions of my body were in atrophy. I think about exercising, and you know what? I haven't lost a pound or gotten in any better shape.

I've been thinking about my career and where my writing is actually going. Now, in this case, I am actually doing the writing, but am I doing enough? I'm still not published, and with each passing day, the fact continues to weigh on me. If every day was a pound of fat, I wouldn't be able to roll myself out of bed - which is probably why I can't seem to roll myself off the mental couch. I can think about (read: stew over) not being published, but those thoughts really aren't getting me anywhere.

Some days I sit and think about cleaning the house. I still have unpacked boxes from the move in October. I have cobwebs that need to be eradicated. I have files to organize. I have papers to sort through and throw out. I can spend hours thinking about all of these things, but they're still sitting there.

Sometimes I wonder if this blog, the forums, the websites, and the so-called research aren't just more of the same. Thinking about doing instead of doing.

This morning I got off my ever-widening ass and took a walk - sixteen blocks is a start. Do that every other day, and maybe I'll be able to look at myself in a mirror without wanting to retch.

Last night I wrote almost 2000 words. Pulling myself almost to 50% finished with the first draft of Fertile Ground.

Monday I vacuumed and spot washed the kitchen floor. (Okay, I only did it because I was ashamed to let the landlady see how messy my floors had gotten - but the point is, I did it.)

And that's about it. Sure, I can be proud of those things, but are they enough? I know I wrote a post a few days ago about celebrating the little things, but I forgot that there's a caveat to the celebration. Celebrate, but don't accept. Little accomplishments are fine, but they aren't enough.

So I wrote 2000 words last night. If I never push beyond that - and I'm not talking wordcount - no one but me will ever read those words. I have to do more. Sure, I did some housework, but I can't just stop there - otherwise my home will become a pigsty, and no one will be happy. Okay, I walked a little. If I do that every day, I might lose some weight, and my legs will be more shapely, but what about my belly and my arms and my butt? Walking ain't gonna cut it, sister.

I've always been an intensely lazy person. Ask my mother. Better yet, ask my sisters - they love razzing me about my profound laziness as a kid. If left to my druthers, I'd be lying on the couch watching reruns or sitting here playing tetris. If I could, I'd lay over there shouting the lines of my books over here while my daughter types them up. (Except I can't write that way. If my hands ever give out, I'm screwed.)

I guess the point of this post is that I recognize the problem. I'm not quite sure how to fix it, but they say recognizing your weakness is the first step toward fixing it. And this is something I have to do on my own. No one can start my internal gumption engine but me. I have to start it and I have to keep it going.

And the next step is to quit talking about starting it. I need to jumpstart, kickstart... pull on the damn cord like it was an old lawn mower.

I'm off to complete some action. What are you doing today?