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?)
*sigh* or *harrumph*
Where is the onomatopoeia for the sound my dog makes when she's annoyed?
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.
When Sevy realizes the pharmaceuticals keeping their bodies young are weened from those deemed to have exhausted their usefulness, he believes he must delve into the purpose of this synthesized society believing it is not much different than the life he lived on earth.
Esther Elizabeth Buck
i'm halfway through my life with the stifled stories stirring. i should have done it earlier, but i am on the
Philadelphia Row is a term used, not only in Philadelphia neighborhoods, but elsewhere to refer to orderly rows of regularized housing.
But there is nothing orderly or regular about any of the goings on in a Philadelphia Row.