Withdrawls

I just spent 45 minutes trying to find a new theme for this blog, and, as you can see, I decided to stick with the same one, despite the annoyance of "undefined" dates.

Can you tell I'm bored? I had forgotten what this felt like, this depressing sense of unproductivity and uselessness. It tortured me before I decided to take Ivolet's story by the horns, but while I wrote, it was nonexistent. Now it's back, despite the fact that I am doing my chores and getting things done. My room is clean! (A nice side effect of not writing like a madwoman.)

Thus it is that I'm seriously considering jumping full throttle into another book. It may not be Thin Ice, but I have plenty to choose from. It's not withdrawls, is it? Writing obsessively gives me the feeling of accomplishment, and I feel that so rarely, even when I do accomplish things. The accomplishment of finishing something you don't care about is as emotionally stimulating as the job itself was. Which is to say, it isn't. But writing - now that makes me feel successful!


I am here, bored in one sense of the word, going through mindless, repeating tasks without a sense of devotion. Chores repeat, writing only goes forward. Writing finishes! Dare I write madly again? Am I becoming a full-time writer, albeit one that doesn't make any money?


The oddity of all this is that the chores I'm doing now were finished just as quickly and efficiently when I was writing, for the most part. I didn't expect to find myself with free time - but I am. Granted, I've done some serious work on some projects, some video editing, some room cleaning, some decorating with movie tickets. But I now have free time. What will bring me joy is writing again, writing to attempt to beat Ted Dekker's 2000 words-a-day average and Erin Healy's 3000 words-a-day goal. (I am a Ruby.)


The only thing I don't relish is the prospect of sitting again. Sitting for hours. I need to exercise, to run, to dance. I haven't really for months, and my body is protesting more and more. It doesn't want to sit, and yet when I do, I end the day as exhausted as if I took a day-long hike. It's pathetic, really. People don't realize how much I wish I liked to run and move. I've tried, but each time it's a struggle, and each time I hate it. No one understands how much I honestly dislike the common idea of exercise. Sometimes I dance in my room to the Broadway soundtrack of The Lion King, Group 1 Crew, the "Cupid Shuffle," and the Newsboys new song, "Born Again," My brother tells me that's not exercise. Perhaps someday he will see the advantages of doing something instead of absolutely nothing because the something is not the best. But for now, I refrain from dancing because of his opinion. I can't deal with his mockery forever.