Hello. My name is S. C. Green, and I suffer from a lack of B.I.C. It’s been going on for a while now, but I know if I looked closer, I’d find the warning signs much earlier.
I’d like to say it happened when I finished my last novel, but that wouldn’t be true. The start of a B.I.C. deficiency starts while you’re still B.I.C. It begins easy enough.
Research.
I know, I know. It’s important to your novel that you do adequate research in order to make it believable. To make it sound like you know what you’re writing about. However, there’s a time and place for research. Not in between chapters and scenes. That’s when you should make a simple note, and move on.
Ill-timed research leads to checking your email. From your email it’s to your favorite social sites, Twitter, Facebook, and it’s all down hill once you reach YouTube.
See, even though I was B.I.C., my mind wasn’t. Eventually the body will follow where the mind takes it. In this case, it’s away from personal productivity.
Then life happens. <– This is the single greatest excuse there is.
Of course life happens. We’d be screwed if it didn’t. What differentiates an amateur writer from a published writer (other than talent) is the ability to make writing a part of their life. Not something to do when life slows down.
Then my B.I.C. time became loosely defined. I figured at least some time writing was better than nothing at all. Which is true, but only for those with an already busy schedule. Pretty soon I would “reward” myself with writing time if I accomplished some small medial task like laundry, dishes, or cutting down a dead tree. Now it’s no longer my fault I didn’t get my B.I.C. time. I had too much to do.
Through all this crap my subconscious knew what I was up to. I akin it to self-amputation. Weighted with my folly, my soul dragged me on a downward spiral of depression. Who can write when they’re depressed? Not me.
Once I hit rock bottom and realized I’ve gone without my B.I.C. long enough to gather a hefty layer of dust on my writing chair, I knew I had to make a decision. I could live a life-long existence filled with mediocre accomplishments and relentless platitudes, or I could write.
I choose the latter. I’m aware I’ve created an uphill journey. A journey that has to first take me back to where I left off before I can move beyond, and that starts with B.I.C.
One butt.*
One chair.**
*By butt, I mean full body, mind, and soul.
**And by chair, I mean any place I can feasibly get a thought down on paper without serious repercussions.
Butt In Chair, Brain In Charge, and Being In Control
