A few hours ago, I was on top of the world, inspired to write all the things. I wanted to work on that ghost story I started a year ago, and I wanted to keep going on a romance trilogy that has been begging to be written for thirteen years now. Most of all I couldn't wait to get home and get a keyboard under my fingers. Funny, once I did come home, I filled up on a nice, rare piece of beef and a tall glass of red wine, and I lost all inspiration to diligently type away. The urge to write is gone, gone, gone. The animals are giving me sidelong glances, wondering why I'm still downstairs with the lights on, and I can hear the man starting to snore upstairs. I promised myself on several occasions that I would take care of all of this earlier in the evening, when I wasn't so worn out, and yet once again I have let it all slide. Does this count as failing at a new year's resolution already? I think it might.
I must accept that I wore myself out being political and defiant yesterday. That's not my task in life, to be quite so provoking. At least, I never thought that it was so. Maybe I need to rethink what direction my writing should take. I'm happy writing out recipes and anthropomorphizing my Park full of wild and tame animals, but there is something immensely satisfying about completely a statement of righteous anger or of poignant homage, and then turning it loose on an audience not entirely made up of my closest friends and family. If I want to have a broader reach, I am going to have to start tackling meatier subjects. A girl cannot mince her way to the stars. It takes vision and it takes bold action. Why then do I constantly hobble myself with a lack of follow-through? That is the million dollar question, is it not?
It's late. I guess I'll go think about where I'm going wrong, and start fresh tomorrow.
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