It has been almost 6 months since I last wrote on here. In this time, I have been everything but a productive writer. In what I would call my real life, I have been working, and even assisted with a community theater production as a stage manager/assistant director/novice Foley artist. And, of course, as I have done since I was a child, I have created of characters while daydreaming; I've built worlds and written stories, all of them in my mind. But it seemed to be too much work to type out my words, or put pen to paper.
I am a procrastinator. I am The Procrastinator. At this point, I imagine myself (a chubby woman with short hair; the shrinking I referred to in the title does not reference my waist) dressed up like Arnold in poster for the first Terminator movie; stone faced, in black leather and sunglasses. While there are certainly times that I procrastinate because a task annoys me or fills me with dread, that's not what holds my writing back. I hold off on writing because I know the facts. Because, like many pessimists, I'm really just an optimist who grew jaded. I hope for the best, but I know the statistics. I understand the likelihood of becoming a published author. I know that of millions of people, there is only a small chance of my being or doing something amazing. I'm one in a vast field of hopeful faces. So I shrink.
Of course, it's a bad sign that I hold my writing apart from my "real life." I've only ever once identified myself as a writer, which made me feel good. And therein lies a major problem for myself; in the attempt save myself disappointment and heartache, I've sold my dreams short. I did this in regards to my day jobs and romantic life. And I tell myself the same about my dreams. When you expect only mediocrity and the humdrum of a dull, beige life, you stop trying. I stopped trying a while ago. To really be anything, even if it is just a prolific but unpublished author, you have have a drive, an excitement for it. That is what I'm trying to find with this blog.
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