Here I am, in the midst of so much unimportant fluff weighing me down again. Laundry, dirty dishes, working out, cleaning, worrying about my boys, even though they’re basically men now, I feel dragged down and exhausted. Why is it that the little things, the really quite nonessential things, really tear us down? Again with the guilt of not writing. It weighs me down. Do I feed off the guilt? Does it make me feel like I have purpose in my life, even by not writing? Okay, maybe I don’t even know where I’m going with this.
It just seems like I’m going around the same stubborn mountain. Around and around I go. And of course the winter weather monster isn’t helping my depression in the least. Can I blame it on the weather? Probably. But probably not a good idea either. I can come up with a long list of reasons why I put off writing. But they’re the same excuses I constantly bitch and moan about. So of course that is getting old.
Does writing pep you up? Does it make you feel happier? Give you a sense of self-worth? Give you a reason for living? It does for me. Then why don’t I write, you may ask? Trust me, I’ve asked myself that so many times that it doesn’t even phase me anymore. And that is sad in a way. If one loves to write, and finds sheer joy in the putting of words to paper, then why doesn’t one do it? I can’t explain it anymore. Is it failure or fame that I fear more? Is it so that I can claim that I am a writer? I tell my family that I have so many good story ideas and great beginnings, but they just shake their heads and tell me to go write them then. And I should.
But there is something hidden beneath the surface. What it is, again, I have no clue. Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe I like keeping it dead and buried. But I am sick of continuing this life without meaning. Without driving myself steadily towards my goals and dreams. Okay, it does have meaning, of course. But what I mean is that I feel that I’m coasting again through this life. And I’m fifty now. More than half my life is over, I’m sure. One cannot keep sitting back and allowing the world to flash before them without at least attempting to go after what they want most in life. So, dear reader, again I ask for your valued opinions. How do you keep at writing even when you don’t seem to have the time? I need some advice, please. It sincerely aggravates me that I keep talking about the same issues without even trying to resolve them. No one wants to keep reading about the same thing all of the time.
So here’s to reading good books, for writing about what is on your heart and in your head. Without excuses. Without fear. Without apathy. Without complaint. Thanks, again, for listening. Please comment with any sage advice, or any good books that might help me out of this funk.