For months now we’ve been struggling in the cold, suffering with the seasonal depression that seems to affect just about every mammal to some degree. I’ve been spending my days of unemployment trolling the web for decent looking job opportunites and letting the housework get out of hand on a fairly regular basis. You’d think, with all this time on my hands, I’d be on top of all of it. Not so, my friends. Not so.
Looking around the house this morning I realized a few things. For starters, the dining room is one of the most pleasant rooms in the house as far as the view and the layout but it is the room we spend the least amount of time in. This is mostly because it is full of things that haven’t found a place to belong, or just haven’t been put there for so long we’ve assumed they’re a part of the landscape. Also, the living room is full of laundry and I have no idea how it got there. The couch and much of the floor is covered with the kids clothes, and I think it may be because they unpacked their overnight bags from Grandma and Grandpa’s house last weekend by upending them. It honestly looks like a laundry fight happened there.
Why is it that whenever I sit at the computer with the intention of blogging about something I’m passionate about, something that feels really important, I end up talking about chores and my own laziness? Perhaps I’m indirectly bemoaning my own writer’s block (which is something else I’ve wanted to write about, if only just to get the juices flowing again). In any case, this morning was an exercise in frustration and I plan to turn it all around… just as soon as I finish typing (and checking my Facebook Page, DOH!).
When I was writing for a publication, getting paid per line of story, I had a sort of thrill about everything I did. Even the stories that made me groan a little or required me to interview someone I’d normally never approach were exciting, because I knew that they’d be read by an audience of my peers and that my input was needed to put the paper together. Hell, even the impending deadlines and the threats (veiled or otherwise) from editors gave me a little rush from time to time. The news world is up to the second these days, and every moment after an event occurs is costing you timeliness that your competitors will surely be striving for. Sure it was stressful in a way… but I’ve always done my best writing on the fly or in the heat of inspiration. Where has that inspiration gone these days? Certainly not the way of the dodo or the mastodon, but it is elusive to say the least.
Once upon a time, I dreamed of becoming author and making a living just telling stories and writing pages of something somebody somewhere would really enjoy reading. The papers we were assigned in college, back when I majored in English, were always a pleasure to write because I was in my element. Books have been my constant companions since I was a wee only kid in Davenport, Iowa. Why couldn’t a pump out a few volumes of the stories that kept me entertained on long road trips or lonely nights at home? I must have seemed like some sort of changeling as a kid always staring out the window lost in my own adventures. I know I still have it in me, but there’s always a mess somewhere or a screaming child or a dog licking the couch or a phone ringing off the hook. When is it going to be my turn to dream again? Did I already miss it? God, how I want to rend my clothes and gnash my teeth thinking of all the hours I spent doing absolutely nothing in my teens and twenties while assuming that eventually I’d live alone and have enough money to buy spiral notebooks (dated myself there) and chef boyardee. Maybe I’ll be one of those “late bloomers” who doesn’t achieve fame or authorship until I’m in my golden years… or later. Should I return to writing that horrible poetry that makes me cringe when I remember the emotions and the lack of experience I was wallowing in when I copied them into a moleskin the first time?
I think not… in any case, I have ideas and stories within me that sit in blocks of ice waiting for a quiet day and a cup of coffee. I’ve got the office, and this old HP desktop still has a few legs left to keep it from crashing into oblivion. I just hope the ice doesn’t melt while I’m changing diapers and marinating jumbo shrimp for dinner. Here’s to the pencil pushers… may they all get lead poisoning. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some Diem to Carpe.
