I am not a saleswoman.  i want that bit out of the way from jump.  i just want to write.  And there is a rotund little character on my shoulder crying out, "But in order to be a writer AND eat, one must do the pesky chore of selling."  I understand that it is not necessarily the art of selling my work, but it's selling myself.  (And i don't even want to take me home, so how can i do that?)

The days I don't write, I am perfectly fine just ignoring that bit about me.  But the days I DO! ...  I feel ... I just feel!  And that's pretty fucking good.  
     My commute for a few days has provided time with my thoughts, and if i was a shout out kind of girl, a quick enthusiastic one shoudl be hailed upon my meds that are being consumed in regular intervals as prescribed.  
     And there's the math isn't it?  ... My time is short because I work at a job that pays for necessities like yogurt and seroquel.  But if i just spent some time writing more, i could put efforts into being a writer even on the days when i don't feel worthy of the title.  (I only entertained the idea of having raconteur on my business cards for a day or two.)  And truly, aside from the selling, I make a pretty good go at writing.  
     I write my stuff, freelance, ghost a bit, have more coffeee and struggle with my bills.   

​ (Struggle no more or less with numbers instead of words in my days.) 

     At the end of the day, if i sleep, i don't stress with the same stress as working at something that is clearly not my passion although it remains my skill.
     I have this thought>> This jumble of melancholic wail over time and effort began because last night, i opened my computer to fill in all the brackets i jumped over during my yesterday commutes, and i was spent.  I didnt' have it in me to key another word on the screen.  But my mind raced and i had to get the words out before i forgot.  
     My brain was vomiting out the words and if i didn't sop up the mess right then and sort through the words, another minute would have come along with a wet vac and cleaned the whole mess away.  (into a vacuum - i rather like that image of my brain being overstuffed with words that it must purge, with a minute jumping from horatio's timepiece and moving it to a place words have no sound - no story.)   
     I wrote a thing about being clean over on my heating a home page... and it sat on my phone in a 'note to myself' over a week.  and this entry was actually started two days ago.  I'm struggling with finishing things.  I'm struggling seeing the end of projects and that punctuation on my sentences.  I blame lack of time and lack of brain, sometimes lack of sleep and often lack of eloquence.  but i have to finish.  if i'm ever going to make the transition from not a writer to a writer, i need to finish.