Ever have those moments when you realize weeks have gone by since you promised yourself that you'd do something?
Me neither. But if I did, I'd be having one of those moments right now.
Last year (y' know, eight weeks ago?), I told myself that I was going to take a step back from work and really focus on building my reader base before unleashing my marginally adequate prose on the world. And then the ball dropped, clients came out of nowhere, and now I can't see straight for the work I have.
First-world problems, yes. But that doesn't minimize the frustration I have with this serendipitous drop of lucrative work in my lap. After all, I have to pay "bills" and get "food" in order to live--which makes the work too appealing to pass up. But then the last wisps of time I thought I was going to get this year (y' know, the last seven weeks) evaporated into my burgeoning bank account.
So, here I am, week eight of 52 and I still have not sent that monkey email I was going to send. That would be the one to let everyone in my immediate email sphere know I was serious about being an author. OR that I was just seriously crazy.
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| I'll never be famous... |
Why do I do this to myself? I have no idea.
You'd think four young children, a headache-prone wife, no social support system, and self-employment would afford ample opportunity for... oh, wait. Thaaaat's why I don't get anything done. Got it.
Okay, so: all my greatest dreams shattered by life, any hope of success gone, and potential to ever meet Emma Watson on the set of my book-turned-movie lost forever. Check.
I wonder what's on YouTube...
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