Day Seventy-Six: Why Am I Doing This?

I was doing my laundry today, and in the middle of frantically putting pants out of the washer and throwing shirts into the dryer, and fishing for hangers, I mentally groaned and remembered that in addition to having to change my address, finish my laundry, pack most of the rest of my belongings, file my taxes, get changed for the concert I'm going to tonight, answer texts from my cousin, answer a thousand questions from my mother about absolutely nothing of importance, pack something to sleep in tonight, and get a moment to breathe, I had to WRITE.

Frankly, I'm out of crap to write about. My standards have gone down substantially since I first started posting, I doubt anybody actually reads it, and it's not getting me anywhere or any form of satisfaction, aside from actually finishing something for once (which I am a long way from doing). Maybe it's because I thought of a new and easy blog that will be focused, entertaining, easy to keep up with, and always easy to add to on a regular basis, without having to struggle for content. I'm considering, at this point, in discontinuing this blog and breaking new ground on my new one as soon as I start working on it.

I really think this could work. My topic, although I will not divulge it, is the type of thing that will allow me to write every single day, as it's something I'll have to do every single day, or almost everyday (to me at least, the topic now seems pretty obvious. But I still won't tell.) Would I be abandoning my project if I'm still writing everyday? And on the days that I happen to NOT write in my new blog, if I don't need to (because in reality, the only thing we really NEED to do everyday is wake up and eat eventually), I could write in this one.

Would I be a failure, or would the blog have served its purpose? This blog was started to get my creative juices flowing, and it has done just that. I've been somewhat inspired, partially by writing regularly. What do you think (if anyone's still reading?)

Day Sixty-Five: No Time to Write

I have currently reached yet another landmark in the wonderful world if writing daily that I have not encountered before. Today is the first day in sixty-five days that I, honest to God, do not have time to write. I didn't have time at lunch, and I am going to a concert tonight immediately after work, where afterwards I will crash at my boyfriend's house in an attempt to get enough sleep to make it through work tomorrow without stress or discomfort. So that leaves me with now.

While I feel both guilty and rushed that I have to piece together points of my day when I can fit in a few sentences, here and there, unfortunately there isn't much I can do. I suppose, in hindsight, I could have gotten up earlier, or I could stay up later this evening, but of course, I didn't think of that. I'm also pretty unhappy with my choice of topic, but it seemed appropriate, since it is the only thing I'm really capable of focusing on at the moment. So here I sit, writing about writing once again.

And, as usual, writing about writing isn't interesting to read, I'm sure, so instead, picture me sitting in front of a computer, sweaty and frazzled from doing twelve other things, tied to my desk for a second. In between answering a ringing phone roughly every forty seconds, I'm typing furiously in order to get down a paragraph, or even a few sentences before I lose my chance. It's 2:00 PM on a Tuesday, I'm hungry, I'm slightly stressed out, and I'm writing. And it's times like these when I really don't want to be writing but would much rather be sitting and collecting my thoughts and my sanity for a moment when I feel most proud of myself, because as mentioned before, I never finish anything.

So sixty-five days in, I may be writing about writing, but I'm writing just the same. I'm busier than a rat at a carnival (get the Charlotte's Web reference, please), but I'm writing. And for me, that means something pretty spectacular. It means that maybe I am capable of actually finishing something, and maybe I am capable of following through on a commitment I make to myself. Sure, I don't eat healthy all the time even though I promised myself I would, and I didn't cut out all refined sugar for a month, like I promised myself I would, but two months into writing, I'm still doing it. And I've still done it everyday. And that's pretty spectacular.

Day Sixty: Who Cares!

While at work today, I came across a wonderful, amazing blog called "A Hamburger Today". After reading about and looking at probably a hundred hamburgers and cheeseburgers over the course of an hour. I REALLY wanted a cheeseburger. I also wanted a food blog. And so, I want to do something similar, just for the hell of it. While the food I'm going to write about will remain a mystery, it's a project I'm going to start probably this weekend. It's going to be informal and fun, without time constraint or minimum posts. And in thinking about my new, fun endeavor, I had another one of those epiphanies I get.

I've started trying to not put as much pressure on myself lately, in terms of my future, where I want to be, what I wanted to be doing, and who I want to make happy. And strangely and miraculously, I'm finding it easier to be creative. Doing simple things that aren't meant to impress anyone seem like fun to me again. I'm feeling happier already. And it's pretty pretty amazing.

So today is hopefully the launch of a new bout of creativity. Hopefully I will have more to offer and share, and with that, I cut things short today, because honestly, who am I trying to impress? I'm writing to keep the habit up, which is good, but there's no reason for me to put pressure on myself to write enough in volume, or profoundly enough, or interestingly enough. But I would still like to come up with decent endings...

Day Fifty-Eight: Why Am I Doing This?

For fifty-eight days, I have been sitting down at a computer and writing. I write about life, I write about moving, cooking, dogs, people, and things that annoy me. For fifty-eight days, I've chronicled my thoughts habitually. For fifty-eight days, I've formed words into sentences, and sentences into roughly-hewn paragraphs. And I can't for the life of me remember why I started writing everyday.

I know I didn't want to bore myself, and that I felt like I needed to use the talents God gave me rather than let them sit in my brain and do nothing while I aged and got old and too busy to do it anymore. But really, now I realize that it doesn't really make a difference. If I like it, I should do it, and if I don't, then why does it matter? Luckily, I like it. I like sitting down to write everyday, assuming I can think of something to write about. Most of the time, unfortunately, I can't think of anything decent to write about, but I usually come up with something somewhat decent and put something together. My first few posts were a much higher caliber of writing than a lot of what I have been writing lately -- more descriptive, less introspective, and more creative with a larger range of vocabulary. But it occurred to me this evening that I have been writing so habitually that I don't even think about why I do it anymore: because I like it.

I make myself write everyday because I'm lazy, and given the opportunity I will many times lay on the couch and watch Food Network over doing just about any kind of personally enriching creative activity. And I think in that regard, I'm doing the right thing. But I have to be doing it for the right reason, too. And thankfully, I think I am.

It reminds me on a regular basis why I chose to go to college for writing, and why at one point I wanted to make it my career. Because I love it, and it comes fairly naturally to me. So I'll keep doing it, because I need a kick in the ass. And maybe at some point, I'll strengthen my weakness of being absolutely terrible at coming up with decent conclusions to things I write about.

Day Twelve: I Am All-Accepting, Non-Discriminatory, Easily-Pleased and Undereducated Foodie

Although a lot of things make me pretty happy, like writing, drawing, and reading, my two absolute favorite pastimes probably happen to be the least constructive of all the things I do: eating and sleeping. Actually, the only thing that rivals the feeling of laying snug in bed, drifting lazily in and out of consciousness to the quiet sounds of pipes or footsteps, and awaking drowsily surrounded by a warm mass of soft fabric, is tasting glorious, glorious food. I love sleeping, but I really love eating. 

I am one of those people that will never turn down free food if it looks safe and clean. I love tastes of all kinds: sweet, savory, tangy, spicy, slightly unusual, or rustic and classical. I will try just about anything at least twice, as long as it isn't some strange part of an animal that performed a function other than working with bones to move it around. I was blessed by having a superhero-like metabolism to keep up with my constant eating, as I usually get hungry every three hours anyway, yet I'm still underweight for my height and age. But it isn't just the physical eating that makes my hobby so enthralling. I am constantly, and probably unhealthily, thinking about food. If I'm not watching Food Network, I'm reading recipes and food magazines. And if I had more money, I would likely cook constantly, even though I'm not fantastic at the process (I yield great results, I just burn myself as much as possible and fill the house with smoke). I'm fascinated by the way different tastes blend together and melt to create something wholly different. So why aren't I a chef? 

To be honest, I have no idea. Mostly, it's because I didn't embark upon my food obsession until after I was already out of college, and secondly, I would hate the long hours, and I handle stress about as well as a chihuahua with ADHD. Sure, I could cater or work in a bakery, but I'm not sure I love cooking enough. In fact, I don't particularly love cooking at all. I cook things I really want to eat. It's the eating I love. 

I thought for awhile about being a food writer, but most food writers need to know more than a fair amount about cooking, and I can't even make a proper egg over-easy half the time I try. I'm not a bad cook -- I just lack the practice and the knowledge. Besides, I feel like it would be a little difficult for me to pick apart the subtle nuances of food when I'm easily impressed by some cream cheese on a sesame water cracker. If a well-educated chef served me filet mignon with Roquefort sauce and shrimp ceviche, I wouldn't be able to pick a thing wrong with it if it wasn't burnt or raw. I just love food too much to care. I'm not a purist either, if it's good, it's good. I don't really care if it's at it's peak of perfection or freshness. Sure, it's nice and probably ten times better, and that's great, but I'm not going to get my panties in a twist about it. I would be an awful food writer. 

So I'll be content with eating, and may my metabolism always be lightning fast. Either that, or may a gym with a cheap membership always be nearby. 

Day One: Thou Shalt Not Be Disgustingly Boring

If one person tells you you're wasting your talents, they can be easily overthrown with a few logical statements about practicality and quality of life.

"I may not love being a receptionist, but the benefits are great, and I'm making good money. Besides, I like my job, I like the people I work with, and I like a regular schedule. It might not be exciting, but it's stable and I'm not in debt". Easily solved.

But if four people tell you you're wasting your talents, you can't help but start to think that maybe they're on to something.

I have been in a lazy, unmotivated, uncommitted, and frustrating battle with myself in a lukewarm effort to gain some fragment of an idea of what I want to do with my life since I was a teenager. But unfortunately, despite years of pondering, a lot of soul-searching, and several ridiculous epiphanies that provided me with a short-lived sense of accomplishment (and some pretty absurd ideas), I still have absolutely no idea what I want to spend my life doing. Not even a little bit.

I do, however, know what I'm good at and what I like. That's why I went to school for writing -- I like it, and luckily I'm pretty good at it. The other choice would have been drawing, but that likely would have only led me to a hatred of any and all art and an even more intense hatred for other artists. Unforunately, neither one of the two identifiable talents I possess will likely provide me with a formidable income and grant me the luxury of eating more than store-brand cereal out of a drafty apartment in a frightening location.

Given the appeal of the lifestyle, I feel it's pretty understandable why I haven't been motivated. I don't love much of anything enough to live such a sad, struggled life. I'm the kind of gal who likes life's little joys, like heated car seats and not having to worry about whether or not I can pay my rent. I admire anyone who follows their passions and makes sacrifices to live their lives doing solely what they love, but I need quite a strong focus and a specific, obtainable goal to so willingly make such sacrifices.

So that leaves me here, where I can't even finish writing a sentence without being distracted by the evils of the internet or MythBusters on TV in front of my face. I'm really a little disgusted by myself. The past two nights this week, I've gotten drunk and watched Julie and Julia, rambling on to my supportive and prodding boyfriend that Julie Powell's story could have easily been mine. I love food, I like writing, I have no idea what to do with myself, and I can't finish anything.

Now, I have no choice but to force myself, like a kid with a plate full of peas, to slowly get myself into a rhythm of at least utilizing what I like and what I'm good at. So I will write about something everyday. It might not be interesting or profound, but it will be as regular as the intenstinal system of a Labrador Retriever, and that's more than I've got at the moment.

This is the beginning of my journey of wandering around in the dark, hoping I stumble into something that will point me in some kind of direction. Like Julie Powell, I will finish something. I don't expect anything to come of it, but I am tired of being disappointed in myself. I'm not trying to be anyone but the version of myself that isn't content with going to bed at 9:30 PM.

This is day one.