My desk is up against the window and has been since I moved into my apartment over a year ago.
Sadly, I am just now noticing how painfully bright the sun can be during my attempts to write after work. This means, that as long as I’ve lived here, I’ve only just now gotten into the groove of sitting down and writing at my desk, because otherwise I would have noticed this glaringly obvious nuisance, right? Right.
So here I sit. Painfully annoyed. But at what?
The more obvious answer would be the sun, but that’s too easy. The real answer is that I’m angry with myself. I’m angry that after years of daydreaming of having my own place, with my own writing area, I’m only just now getting around to utilizing it. Likewise, after years of wishing to become an author, I basically stopped writing altogether for close to a year – with only half-assed attempts every once in a while.
How can somebody proclaim to want something so bad, but ignore going after it?
Don’t get me wrong, on one hand I’m positively brimming with joy and happiness to find myself writing again. But, on the other hand, I’m riddled with anxiety that there’s the very great and very real possibility that I might just stop writing altogether – again. What if this is my last blog post for a few more months? What if I find something new to do with my time? What if I don’t have any excuses and just stop writing for the sake of not wanting to sit down and mentally hash through all the chaos jumping around in my head?
What if, what if, what if!
I’m tired of what ifs.
Actually no I’m not. I’m tired of my new way of approaching what ifs. I used to be so besotted with the actual art of writing. I used to want to write more than I wanted to become an author. But now everything is backwards. I’m more in love with the idea of being a published author than I am of actually sitting down and telling a story. What ifs used to inspire me. They used to make me want to do something about them – to write about them and all the potential they held.
Somewhere between college and now, I’ve gone from an adventurous writing soul to a fearfully stagnant soul. That’s not good.
I can list a million and one reasons for this change in me, but I rather not waste my time or dwell on it any more than I already have. But I will. That’s what I do best. Whether it’s the writer in me trying to rationalize my own storyline or whether I’m trying to analyze the emotional turmoil I’m going through for future fodder to use down the road with potential characters – I don’t know. All I know is that it’s there and, as much as it pains me to say it, I don’t foresee it going away anytime soon.
But that’s okay, it gives me something to whine – I mean write about.