writer's block [musings on time, not having enough of it, and other excuses]

Today's prompt from Reverb:
December 2 Writing. What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?

You all should see my schedule book. My best friends, my students, my colleagues, have often commented upon my amazing organization. Ha! I refer you to Derrida's concept of "differance," which, in my perhaps foreshortened understanding, indicates that the presence of a thing implies its opposite. Take the 7 Deadly Sins for example. Why would we need such a highly rigorous classification system for sin if sin weren't so messy? If I were actually organized, would I be casting a glance at a calendar with 3 layers of sticky notes on it, some of which cross-reference the other sticky notes?

I schedule every moment of my time, which is a sure sign I don't have enough of it. Or at least that I don't feel that I do. Speaking of signs, I have an anal retentive one outside my office door which says, well, forget what it says, because it's just euphemistic for "if I'm not required to pay attention to you right now, go away!" Another indication of not having enough time.

But is this true? When I think of some of the things I manage to accomplish (which is quite a lot, actually) I realize I'm making excuses. The truth: I don't have an intrinsic desire to write regularly, so I don't.

Part of me hopes I'll be like Grandma Moses. In my 70s, novels will just flow out of me like snot from my 3 yo's nose. No, I suspect that like many things in my life, I want to HAVE WRITTEN, not to write. [I.e., I want to have learned to speak Italian, not to engage in the process of learning it.]

There are precious few things I enjoy the process of, without looking for a product: teaching, making ceramics, making love, traveling, dancing, cooking. Wait, that's not a precious few. That's a LOT!

My ex-husband told me once that my life was my art. Himself having already written 2 novels when he said this, I thought he was softening the blow of my inferiority. Or trying to get me back. Now I see what he said for the truth it contained. My life is my art. I am composing myself as I go, and as long as I engage in that writing process, I can be satisfied.

Of course, Derrida (and careful readers) would point out that my excessive use of italics above to indicate sincerity most likely indicates the lack of it.