Gone Too Long

Don't you just hate it when a pet-project gets left high and dry because another project takes up all your time? Well, I just moved into a new home - an apartment which had me at first glance - and all the fussing about with getting settled into it has made me completely neglect this space. Silly, really, this is where I should turn when I'm feeling as frustrated as I am now, and just hash it out.
Yes, I am extremely frustrated.
I haven't written anything for over a month. Okay, I'm exaggerating. I have written little morsels and a poem or two and I've had ideas and done some brainstorming on old ideas so that I can get those old ideas whipped into shape before I tackle the new ideas.
But.
It's still not generating actual written pages and it's so blooming frustrating.
I'm a lazy writer, to tell you the truth. I wish I wasn't. I wish I had a good, strict regime going, where I was in a groove of how to divide my free time up so that I could hone my craft, see friends, family, and relax in front of the TV or reading a nice book. But I don't have that power, as of yet, and so I feel I just roam. Well, seeing it on black and white makes me realize that I can't let myself roam any longer: it is time to take the page by its corners and wrestle it to the desktop... or something or other.
It's time to take myself by the ear and seat myself down in front of the computer.
It's daunting.
No matter how well I know that it is a fact that the white page will intimidate me, it still, sometimes (not every time) does; but it isn't the thought of filling it, which frightens me a little. No, it's the thought of what's to come after it. What's to come after it? What will come after I've written a story with characters I love and a place I've come to know and I'm proud and happy and then... I send it off to an editor with claws and fangs who will tear those characters apart and level the place to the ground? I don't think so.
I know I'm being really stupid. I know fear is stupid in this case, because everybody gets rejected. Rejection is part of the process, and one has to have tough hide and thick skin and blahblahblah and I don't want the ripping and tearing and bloodshed and tears. Oh, the tears!
It's a difficult, difficult thing to wish to write, but it's an even more difficult thing to wish to be published.
Ah.
Eureka.
There's the key.
They are two seperate processes.
Sitting down in front of the computer means I get to dive into a place I wish to know and come to love, and learn all about these strangers that inhabit it. It does not mean worrying about wether anybody else will find them interesting enough, it means simply to get them onto the page. It is my pleasure, my own, and the first draft is a treasure meant for only me. As such, it's precious. I shouldn't shun it, I shouldn't fear it, I should be ecstatic that it's there for my taking.
Hah!
Right.
So then.
I guess, here I go.
See you on the other side.