I feel pulled in so many different directions. I love writing and reading. Words. But I also really enjoy doing stuff with fiber. Creating. Sometimes I feel like I never make progress toward any goal, because it’s hard to divide up my time. And even if I could do that successfully, I would hardly be making progress anyway. It takes a biggish chunk of time to get into writing. I know that from even newspaper writing. It takes a while to get settled into writing. To start. I really like having my day off (from my 8-hour-a-week job, heehee), Friday, be a day of fiber. Spinning, knitting, crocheting, whatever. But then when do I write?
I’m going to try to at least set aside an afternoon a week for that. Not much, I know, but dedicated time, when I don’t browse online, or watch TV or Netflix, and I’m thinking about not answering my phone. Scandalous, I know. Maybe I won’t be able to go that far. We’ll see. But I’m trying. And maybe someday, now that we’re done traveling for awhile, I’ll be able to discipline myself to get up earlier each morning, and do some exercise. Maybe I’ll also call a friend, and go for a walk.
I think I’m scared of writing. I’m not entirely sure why, though. Perhaps I’m scared of what I’ll learn about myself. Perhaps I’m scared of what other people will think of me when they read what I’ll write. Perhaps I’m scared of failing (That’s a common one in many areas of my life, so it seems pretty likely.) I know I don’t really want the isolation that I feel is necessary for me to write. Perhaps I already feel on the verge of crazy, and I’m afraid this will push me over the edge.
Maybe it’s all those things. But this is one of my long-term dreams. I want to write novels. I want to be a published fiction author. So I need to pursue this. I can’t just expect that one day I’ll be a published author, without sitting down and doing the hard work of writing. Of struggling to write. Right?