Writing

When I was a kid I wanted to make books. Now that I’m adult not much has changed, except for the reality of the publishing industry.

I was asked recently what I wanted to do with my life and I couldn’t recount a single thing I wanted to do anymore. It was as if I’d given up, and honestly I don’t want to say that I’ve given up on any of my dreams. But on a serious note, the older I get the less those dreams have any gravity to keep them from floating off into the abyss. I thought by forcing myself to write every day it would encourage me to continue books I’ve started or rewrite books in desperate need of a final draft, but I can only count less than a handful of times I even opened up those files on the computer to start it up again only to close them because some other pressing matter needed attending to.

Then I thought I should go back to school and get a degree in something to get a job, but alas even those ventures seem fruitless. And it is as though the universe is trying to tell me to find another path with all the hoops I’ve been having to jump through just to get financial aid, which yet again still hasn’t gone through because they require the same documents I gave them the last two times I went to the financial aid office at the local community college, although to be fair they are different than the previous four documents I had taken down. Somehow I’m getting lost in the shuffle.

For now I should feel lucky I have a job, even if it is only part time and doesn’t pay the bills. For now I should feel lucky that I have a roof over my head, even if it is somebody else’s roof we are renting it from. For now I have a lot of thinking to do and perhaps need to plot out where I want the rest of my story to go.