I don’t read as much as I should, and I certainly write much less than I always promise I will. Someone once told me I was a master of excuses. At the time, it was a pretty painful thing to hear. I had let someone down, at least to an extent, and they’d lost money as a result. It wasn’t one of my proudest moments, especially when I had promised him I could do and would do so much. With time, though, I’ve always gone back to that moment to whip me back into shape.
I never used to call myself a writer. I don’t even know if I should call myself one. I’ve had articles published in small local papers. And I once had a poem published in an anthology…when I was 7 years old. It wasn’t even an impressive piece. I submit two poems, one about school and another about the 4th of July and fireworks. My teacher chose to submit the school poem, and it always bothered me. But I digress…
I don’t know if I should call myself a writer because I rarely if ever finish anything I start. I guess it’s not just with writing, but with a lot of things. I let myself down a lot. I think sometimes I don’t like myself all that much because of it. In fact, I’m pretty sure this button is about me.
But that doesn’t mean I always have to be one. I don’t think it’s too late to finally grow into the person I always set out to be. What I want to be when I “grow up” is a writer. Maybe even a quasi-successful one. Not an editor like I am now (and that’s almost a joke because I work in the pornography business and my “editing” is sloppy at best…more on that later). I want to finally finish one of the many books I’ve talked about in my head. Like the one about my high school stories, the friendships and relationships and awkward sex and humiliating moments. Or the one after that about college and being out of college and back in again and all my sexcapades, cause I had a lot of them, and all my bad dates and the few good ones and the bizarre encounters with strange people whose names I can barely remember the more time passes. Or the one about the little girl, my daughter, the one that died, the one I miss so much, who I want to fictionalize and immortalize because I can’t think of a nicer way to honor her memory. Or the stories of when I went to Nicaragua, and how I can’t finish that book until I return. But I know there will be a nice section dedicated to my late grandfather and his dog, oddly named “Dancing”, and his books and his machete and his rocking chair and his wonderful smile and how his favorite dish was lengua en salsa (tongue in salsa). And there are other book ideas, and none of them have been written, and all of them lie heavily on my shoulders.
My excuses for not writing these days are pretty valid ones. I work full time, with a one-hour lunch break, and a 45 minute commute each way, yielding to a 10.5 hour day, not to mention the hour or so I spend in the morning just getting ready for work, and the minimum half hour once I get home spent trying to figure out what I want to eat. There goes most of my time.
I’m also pregnant with my second child, and because I am a high-risk pregnancy, I require frequent visits to the doctor. This results in my having to work extra hours around my appointments. This results in smaller paychecks and higher stress. Most especially because my husband has been out of work since July and it is now nearly October and I can’t believe how quickly the time has passed.
Add to that my numerous transportation issues (I’ll get into that another day), and you’ll see why I am so exhausted sometimes, and too exhausted to write most of the time.
But that’s still no excuse. I know this. I know that I spend more time than I should on social media sites, talking about garbage and reading about garbage.
So this is my new outlet. This is where I’ll write and where I can be honest. At least, as much as I can be. God…goddess…the gods know that it’s hard enough for me to be truly honest about everything in the end, which is just another reason why I rarely write. It’ll get better, I swear.