A couple of months ago, I finally buckled down and said that I would do what I always wanted to do. I would write a book. I put together an outline — that was the easy part. Filling in words has been tough. 

I'm shocked that I've found writing to be so tough. After all, I can poop out five blog posts before 10:00 am. I wrote a dissertation. I'm trying to write for a popular audience, so this should be easier than a dissertation, right? I'm not using footnotes or long strings of references. I'm writing about a topic that I am intimately familiar. Shouldn't this be easy?

Well, no. It's not. Dissertations and academic writing are guided by strict rules and formal structures. Fluid writing is less important than the results of the research. Academic books are often "cut and paste" efforts based on a series of small papers written over several years. Blog posts are short, typo filled, and have the immediate rewards of comments. It's adrenaline fueled writing.

I'm tricking myself with little rewards. One paragraph equals a game of solitaire. I'm following other writers on Twitter, who announce their word count for the day. Competition is a motivator. I joined a writers' group on Meetup to create a deadline for a polished product. I'm slowing down the blogging and writing for other venues, because a person can only produce so many words in one day.

At the same time, writing is so boring that I have to break up the day with outings — a trip to the gym and lunch with my sister. If I don't do those things, then I end up disheveled and spacy when the kids come home.

I'm not sure this project is going to work out. I may not have the talent or the fortitude to finish. My harddrive contains several other aborted efforts from the past. Well, I'm further along that I've gotten before. I'm trying to not get caught up with questions like "Does this suck?," "Will anybody care about this?," or "Does this book make my ass look big?". I'm just carrying on.