Where the fuck do I start?

I find it funny that the thing that makes me return to my blog (which I love and continually look at in a longing fashion as my very own road not taken) is that the world is in the midst of a global pandemic and that I have an abnormal amount of free time between digital (which, in this stream of consciousness rant I spelt ditual until my auto-correct was all “biiiiiiiiiiiiitch, what are you thinking?) Classroom sessions and am at the point in my boredom where I need to let thoughts escape from my mind otherwise I’ll be watching youtube, singing along to videos at 1:45 in the morning.

Which, I’ve never done, but it could happen.

There’s also the commitment I made to working on writing again, which is a lot more nuanced than the sheer boredom of solitary confinement. A couple of things happened to set me back on this path (which leads me to believe, in this instant, that my life has almost a pendulum-esque governing system and I’ll never get either of the things I actually think I want – which is probably a topic for another post, but i digress).

Football, for me, at the moment, is done. I went back to SJPII because I thought that was going to be the easiest path to becoming a head coach (which is really the one way I will feel fulfilled in the activity at this point and because I have a bond with the kids there that I value) but when the job was open this past spring I was passed over.

Side thought: that’s a weird thing to look at in text. Especially since we are a couple of months removed at this point.

While not getting it sucked (and I have a lot of feelings I really cant Express about it here – which also sucks from a whole other “I tell the truth” arrogant writer perspective) it allowed me to ask a question that I had been grappling with:

“Why don’t I write anymore?”

Simple answer: I dont know.

While there is the logical approach to that question – I work 10-12 hour days (12 when I had sports) and when I got home I took time to breath and play a game and have a beer and do the “and” things that kill all the time a person has before sleeping, waking up, and repeating the whole damn process over again. That doesn’t account for the fact that if writing is what I love, if it is who I am, shouldn’t I be making time for it?

I should.

And really it isn’t a problem specific to me. You go through any creative writing program and you’ll find a segment of people who continually proclaim: “I just don’t have anytime to write.” I hate those people. I mock those people. The worst realization of 2020 (and there is a Yorkshire shit-ton of worst realizations in 2020) is that i may be becoming one of those people. I cant be one of those people.

That is where I am at the moment. Killing time waiting for a digital faculty meeting and trying to figure out a way i can find something in myself that will allow me to care enough to have thoughts and ideas on subjects or to feel deeply enough to create some damn fiction.

I will.

I will.

I will.


What do you think? Do you agree? Do you love it? Or am i a complete tool? Any response is welcome!

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