When I Grow Up

I have been neglecting my blog again. When I started it way back whenever I thought it would be a great way for me to start writing. Again. More. Whatever. Turns out there just aren't enough hours in the day and writing, blogging, takes a backseat. Sure, I have a book of poetry waiting to be published. Sure, I have the plot of a novella outlined. Sure, I have titles to the series of children's books I want to write. But the only writing I've dobe recently is a home study, which I did not really enjoy simply because it required a format that is poor writing. I don't want to use the words describes, reported, stated any time soon!

I think I had this idea that writing would be a fun way to use my creative juices and blow off steam- my own personal therapy. But in reality, if you want to be a writer it can't be a part time gig. There has to be time dedicated to it. Daily. And right now my life does not allow that. Maybe someday. When I grow up. 

For now, I settle for the occasional blog post. The card mailed to a friend. My infrequent journaling when something is weighing on me. My trusty friend comes out when I feel that inner restlessness about something. Maybe that is why I am secretly obsessed with pens and notebooks, because I know I will always NEED to write from time to time. I love to lose myself in a good book, but writing does something for me that reading cant't. That talking can't. An utter rawness that is hard to achieve in conversation. 

And someday, when I retire, I WILL become a real life writer.