It doesn’t happen to me very often, but lately I wonder where time went by.
I’m fully aware of my priorities and accept that things take longer time simply because I actively choose to do other things first. But what if there never is time for other things than the most basic?
Family, job, writing; that’s my priority list. Sure, I wouldn’t mind if job and writing were the same, but now it isn’t. And I’m a fool if I don’t do my job as I should. So it must come before writing.
And I have time to write.
But then I don’t have time for much else.
I have a beautiful blue skirt waiting to be finished; I’ve several meters of other wonderful cloth to be sewn into nice clothes; I’ve got a garden and a once-inch-scale dollhouse; just waiting for time, which I use for writing – hopefully, sadly I find myself excusing myself not writing too often, browsing the Internet.
Personally I think I’m a damn good writer with great prospects.
And right now I just want to do other things than writing. Anything but writing. Doing a Gustavian wallpaper for the dollhouse maybe, or finish the exterior for a start. Write letters long neglected.
But I want to finish this script. This great script that will win the contests and take me to the stars.
But hey, even if it is great, it doesn’t do anything by itself. Once finished I still have to work to get it around, getting it read.
Sometime pretty soon I’ll need a breather. I need to get the inspiration back. When I feel I’m looking for excuses not to write more often than writing, it’s time to catch the breath.
It's just that I'm scared to blink. Maybe an opportunity runs by in the meantime.