Sunday, August 30, 2015

Apparently it's been two years since I posted anything and the only reason I'm back is because I'm bored. I've watched all the Netflix I can for one day and I tried reading, but my brain isn't retaining any of the information into coherent thoughts. I get one day off at a time. I work retail which means I work most weekends and I only get two days off in a row if the planets are perfectly aligned and the sea gods aren't angry.

So never.

It's difficult to fully relax when you have to spend your one day off doing laundry and cleaning the house and then you have this nervous tension deep in your stomach that tells you you have to get up early the next morning and deal with morons for an entire day. So I try to do something on my days off that doesn't feel like work, but watching Netflix and reading books only numbs the pain, it doesn't take it away.

I feel better when I write, either on my days off or when I get home from an 11 hour day working two jobs, writing makes me feel like I'm doing something with my life, that I'm not wasting every tiny moment.  It gives me peace.

So why is it so difficult to convince myself to do it? To sit down and put words onto paper, to give life to the story that's trapped in my soul, writhing to get out.  I know that I'm mostly scared.  History tells me that even after all the time and effort I'm going to put into this story it's going to suck. This isn't my first rodeo. I've written books that I was sure would be best sellers and allow me to quit my crappy jobs and do what I love for a living, but it turns out I was the only one who thought that (as long as you don't count my mother).

It's exhausting and depressing and all consuming.  And yet I love it.  I took a year off from writing all together and it was the most miserable year of my life.  So I made a plan to write something every day. And it lasted about a week.  Just like all my other plans. This is also why all my plans for world domination have failed.  Because working two jobs and being a single mother is also exhausting and depressing and all consuming.  But then I open up a notebook and I get a whiff of the blank paper and all that goes away as long as my pen is rolling smoothly across the page.  

I started this blog years ago with the hope that if I put it out there on the interwebs for everyone to see, maybe it would motivate me to do more, write more.  It lasted about a week. But it was a glorious week, so I'm going to do it again.  I'm giving myself a goal to write something, anything every day no matter how exhausted or depressed I am.  Before my head hits the pillow I have to put something on paper- for the sake of my soul because I think the not-writing is taking its toll and chipping away little by little at what's left of my creativity.

I've been too engrossed in being an adult for too long.  The weight of responsibility and bills and polite conversation has beaten my inner child into a bloody pulp.  That's probably what it's supposed to do in order to mold us into proper citizens that always do the right thing and obey all the rules. And it's what I do most of the time, but there is always this part of me that wants to swim in the fountain and throw garbage at assholes who take up two parking spots and scream at the top of my lungs in a crowded mall for absolutely no reason.

I don't think I'll ever have the nerve to let that part of me roam free and do what she wants because I don't think I would survive long in jail, but the least I can do is let her out on the page and see what she comes up with in another world, for other characters.

So I will keep track of how much I write here on this blog.  I will use it for what I originally intended it for.  For at least a week.