Snow can wait, I've forgot my mittens

I've done nothing today. Barely got my morning pages out, curled up on the desk chair and read some random slash fic and let the hours spill away, made some tea, ate some rice and green lentils, realized the sun had set and lit my electric candles, answered a couple of ads on Filmcafe, sent a couple of scripts to another production company, made more tea; I should go for a walk, or shower; no, I should write. But I don't like to write because I should, I only ever want to write because I have to, and not from some outward pressure of expectations or deadlines, but from inside, from a pressure of words that need to get out. You can't force it, you can't wait for it, so what do you do.

Oh, I also checked out some youtube links that Kajsa shared with me, feeling the need to educate me in must-knows of musical genius from the 60s, 70s and 80s, and now I've discovered Patti Smith. I've also listened to Exene Cervenka and Lydia Lunch, but Exene I already knew from before through Viggo Mortensen, and Lydia I discovered today, but on my own. I think I might like her the best. But it's Tori Amos who's stuck in my head, the fragile notes of "Winter" playing on repeat, reminding me I should be writing up the fifth draft of my feature screenplay, but as always, I'm procrastinating, because I'm resistant, because I'm self-sabotage-ing, because I'm scared. I need to do yoga. But my room is too small.