Yesterday I ran from home to work to home to out. I barely had time to get drunk, never mind write. I promised to make up for it today. I reworked my desk area with a new table from Jeff. Now I can use my speakers and larger monitor with my laptop. We also lazed around a bit and ate lucky and delicious food, then watched Fargo. Currently, we are at a local coffee shop reading and writing.
I found myself really jealous of people's time off over the holidays. Time off in general. I am hoping the last couple of weeks are symptomatic of working too hard and not playing hard enough. (Plus the difficulty of the holidays this year.) Otherwise, I am afraid it means I'm just not serious about all this. I wanted so badly to just escape to some room somewhere, ideally surrounded by snow. Maybe even with no internet.
But then, when I have had a day or two off work--I haven't spent them writing. It's almost like I've resented writing, for sucking the fun out of life. I resent people with normal lives, who work during the day without hating every minute of it. They go home and they enjoy some hobbies like reading or sewing or hiking or going to the gym. I mean, this is the life I had in Austin, and it wasn't good enough for me. Now I've adopted this stupid mission to change my life, and it seems like it requires the sacrifice of everything else. When I am not at work, I should be writing. Not running. Not knitting. Not hiking or even reading. Whenever I do any of those things, in the back of my mind I feel like I am failing. But I need these things to give me a sense of success. I mean, I am not succeeding at anything else in my life, at least I can knit a sock. I don't know. I don't know what the matter is.
I want this to be a good year. I don't want it to be a year I have to make it through if it kills me. I need to look at things differently, but at the moment I have no idea how. Tomorrow, I am going to run and clean the house (not at the same time). That's all I know right now.