I just want to spend my days sitting on a coast writing novels. Maybe, own a small bookshop for extra money. How do people accomplish that life? Is that even possible anymore? The type of life I want sounds like a 70’s movie about the independent female. If I didn’t have to worry about money I would buy a cottage where I’d live with an old dog. We’d go walking along the beach everyday and I’d finally be able to breath deeply.
Instead, I wake up every day burnt out. I have to go to a job I hate and at the end of the day I feel no urge to write. If my days were free, I’d get up in the morning and exercise. Then I’d sit down with some coffee and write. There are so many ideas floating in my mind, so many hopes waiting to become books.
I keep thinking that if I get a low maintenance job I will have time to write around it. That’s a lie I often tell myself. It doesn’t help that I’m terrible at grammar and I can’t spell. The worst part is that I never finish what I write.
I stare out windows dreaming of what I could be, instead of actually being it. I’m filled with dread that I’m wasting my life, but if I did what I wanted would that even make me happy? Would I just be anther disillusioned starving artist who eats dreams and regurgitates cliches? In my soul I know I’m more at home with words than in any other world, but that doesn’t mean I’m good at writing. Maybe, I’m trying too hard. I should just sit and let the story go, like I do when I blog. Instead I falter and stutter with keeping the momentum of my story going. I write pieces and expect them to fit like a jigsaw finished by a four year old. I can see why Hemingway offed himself. Except, people actually enjoyed what he wrote.