Thursday, April 28, 2016

I Don't Wanna Write Today

I'm not feeling it. Usually I had to force myself through the block and write regardless, then hopefully have enough time to edit whatever I produced into something worth reading. But I don't have to do that anymore, do I? Until I get another job, I can simply not write when I'm not in the mood, which is somewhat rare.

That said, I don't want to not write. See, what I am is a writer. It's not what I do, it's actually what makes up part of the fabric of my being. I couldn't wait to learn how to read so I could learn how to write. And the instant I was able to put enough words together, the first thing I did was write a story. I wrote a tale of a couple of my classmates in first grade fighting a giant octopus. I remember it because my teacher saved it, then my mother saved it. I don't know if I still have it, but I remember laboring over the story for a whole recess, while my teacher shook his head and wondered if he'd ever get me back out onto the playground.

I also read a lot as a kid. I read everything I could get my hands on, age-appropriate or not. I read some really odd stuff I didn't understand that my mother or father had laying around. I read books in the library that were definitely beyond my reading level. The librarian just shook her head and let me do it, knowing I would either give up, or figure out the words some way.

But writing was me. The only time I feel complete is when I've written something. If I am not writing, I don't feel like I'm human. I feel hollow. That's why being a reporter was a dream job for me. I was given assignments and went places, and then I wrote. While I am naturally a recluse and hate going out, being a reporter forced me to face the world and thanks to that I was able to learn and grow. For four great years I blossomed. I will never regret those four years. I even cherish the mistakes I made.

Now I'm not sure what to do. I don't really want to be a reporter any more. I didn't want to be one in the first place. But I found I love research, and I love writing articles on people. So I'm a bit confused and lost. I've been sending writing samples to online wordmills... not my favorite way to work, but if I have to do tech documents or SEO for awhile, so be it. I'm just afraid that now that I've seen the fun side of writing I'm not going to be able to churn out pieces to a word count anymore. I just don't know. I do know the pay is crap, which is saying something. I got paid peanuts as a reporter, but while I enjoyed it, the pay wasn't an issue.


I'm getting a cold. I'm beginning to wonder if hubby-Eric's Sunday night trip to the emergency room wasn't a combination of a bad cold and allergies, and not just allergies. My cold is attacking my sinuses and making me drowsy and unhappy.

Inkwell, in the meantime, is terribly confused by my continued presence. Today he made his irritation known by climbing up on things and knocking stuff down, all while meowling as loudly as he could. I finally figured out why I have to readjust my light every night... he's pushing it and rubbing up against it.

Right. This is probably TMI anyway, so off I go to find something that will help clear out my sinuses a bit.