Sunday, February 27, 2011

Beloved Reader,

I just want you to know that I am working on several posts. They mean a lot to me and I can't wait to share them with you.
But my life keeps getting in the way. I can't find the time (and when I find the time, there's no energy) to get it written. The children, the cats, the laundry, exercise, organizing the family trip in June, Facebook (I admit it, it gets done first, but it's quick and low quality), the curtains (still not hung) and housework (only the bare minimum) have come first. And 25th.
It's killing me. I want to write. I MUST FIND A WAY.
Until then, I remain,
Your RC

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Those pesky thoughts

It's 3:30 again. Oh, no.

I had a thought yesterday that maybe I was at peace with my life and myself since I was able to sleep through the night after my last 3:30am wake up (or, as through the night as is possible with three small children and two asshole cats). But I guess I was just really tired.

Because here I am again, kept from sleep by these pesky thoughts.

I can't even imagine summer. A time when my feet and hands aren't cold, when I can slip on my flip flops to go outside, when I don't have to struggle Mia and Aidyn into four layers of clothing to leave the house. When the sun will bleach out the carrot and tomato stains. When I don't have two hours of dark in the morning (or five on an early day like today).  When we don't have to readjust the car seats every other time for coat volume.

I've discovered what "blog" really stands for. It's an acronym: Baggage Left Online (un)Guarded. This is where we leave those briefcase bombs waiting to go off in our psyche. Our issues, problems, scars from the past, we shove them into a box and hope they won't escape. But now, with blogs, we can open the box in cyberspace, freeing ourselves (hopefully; those issues have a funny way of finding home no matter where you leave them), assuming  that our past isn't hazardous to others.

Today is writer's group. I wanted to rewrite the crap I wrote for last time and continue the story. But I haven't done it. Nor have I finished reading the story I'm supposed to critique. Guilt all around.

I want to write. But after a day of being a mother my words seem to hide. Or I'm just so tired I can't find them. Sometimes something inspires me, but usually my evening is just writer's block and Dexter or The Mentalist.