scared when the lights went low

6 Jan

Now that I have something else to do, I feel so much more productive in all the other areas of my life. For example, I’ve written a blog entry every day this year so far. That takes time and dedication. I’m surprised I’ve managed to write anything at all. I mean, I could have sworn I was suffering from a crippling case of writer’s block. That’s the reason I haven’t been able to add a single word to my story for a week now, right?

A part of me really enjoys this. It’s sick. I know. If my Job was to crank out stories–stories for Other People to read–I would hate it. I would hate it in a way that I’d always wanted to hate a real job. And that sort of means that I would love it. Instead of worrying about giving the wrong amount of change to testy customers, I’d have to worry about writing something they’d like. And I live that every day. So. That’s that. That’s me again, trying to be whoever you want me to be. Sick.

But I know what it’s like to finish a story. I know what it’s like to complete a project and have something, maybe only six hundred words that if I tried, I could be proud of. That’s what I’m chasing, I guess. I know that when the month is over, my story will be finished. It has to be. I can’t imagine letting myself miss the deadline. At that time, I hope to be satisfied at least. This is what I’ve been dreaming of. Well, this and kissing girls. I don’t know what that’s about.


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