*the title is a quote lovingly adapted from The Fast and the Furious.
I feel sometimes as though I've been so swamped that I haven't had time at all to write. Creatively, that is.
I mean, here I am. Writing. Maybe it's interesting, maybe it's not. But I'm unraveling the rubber band ball in my head. Hoping to pull out a thread of some sort of creativity.
Sometimes I wonder if, because of the direction my life took, I'll ever be able to write for some actual monies one of these days. I've tried. Always having to start out for free. There was the unnamed first blog I wrote for. (I don't want to name it because, well, it had more bad than good attached to the experience.) And I absolutely love what I do for Blissfully Domestic.
I just feel sometimes as though everything I ever thought I wanted completely slipped away when I left home. Had I taken myself and everything around me more seriously, I could probably be working with my Dad right now in the studio.
And, man, I never realized how much I would miss all that until I had to leave it behind. Dying to be in that studio with him. To be a part of the creative process in some way, shape, or form. Finally be asked to help and that lump in my throat making me feel like I was going to puke because ohmigod I might mess up and I DO NOT want to let him down.
My Dad was, is, and always will be a musical genius. Legendary. I'm sad to say I never lived up to that potential he told me I had. And I'm even more sad to say that I never knew quite how to phrase just how much I looked up to him and respected him. I'm sad for the times we butted heads while growing up. Because the older I get, the more I realize he was right. About everything.
Writing is truly the only thing that's carried over from my "previous life" into my "current life." Because, let's be honest, karaoke is just a substitute. A good one, but a substitute nonetheless. And even Nutrasweet will give you cancer over time.
Yet I've had difficulties finishing a manuscript. Easily distracted, I figure if I'm bored with an idea, my readers would be, too. I mean, come on, if I don't wanna write it, why the hell would you want to read it?
And I don't care what anyone says - it's difficult to write with two children and everything else (college, Avon) going on in this household. It's hard to make the time and sometimes my brain is just plain fried out. Short circuited, blue screen of death, not even ctrl+alt+delete will save me now.
Oh, and Stephenie Meyer, you can just go shove it up your bottom. I'm talking about writing a novel worth the reading.
Now I'm at the point where everyone is either up in arms because they either feel I'm blaming my family for my inability to get any creative writing done or I'm picking on their literary goddess.
To the former: I'm not blaming my family. I'm having a rather enjoyable pity party. That whole wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger theme. Pass the whiskey or find the exit.
To the latter: No comment. No. Comment.
Who knows. Maybe this little pity party for myself will turn into some real motivation. I need to monitor my time. I've been taking more and more breaks from Twitter (my apologies to my followers, but I need to focus on the priorities) lately, but even then I feel like there's never enough times.
I can't keep racing on hopes and dreams, though. One of these days I'm just going to have to plow right on through it.