Having trouble tonight, thinking of something to say. I’m a bit preoccupied with things. We have some friends coming into town, only it’s not a happy occasion due to a death in their family. Thanksgiving is rapidly approaching. As is our son’s second birthday. I’m mostly enjoying writing every single day, although I obviously can’t be brilliant every day (hey, I would take being brilliant once every couple of weeks, thank you).
I could do a bunch of freewriting and eventually come up with something, but that would bore you (& probably me) to tears.
I’m frustrated. What’s new? My dad and his brothers were all storytellers. And hysterically funny. Why am I not able to do that, too?
I’m mad at myself for being so dissatisfied with me and what I have. I see other writers succeeding and I am happy for them. But then I turn a critical eye to myself and wonder why I’m not finding opportunities like that. Why I’m not a better writer. Why I don’t have more traffic and can’t build up an audience. I’m so busy beating myself up that I can’t see a way out of it – a way to improve what I’m doing.
I get so jealous of moms who get to stay home without working. Oh, the things I could do with my son if I didn’t have to sit in a chair 5-7 hours a day and work my tail off to barely get by. But I knew this going in. I knew this when I quit my job to work from home. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I knew we’d have a tight budget. I just wanted to spend the time with my son.
Here’s the thing though. I’m not really sure how quality that time is. And I wonder if he’d be better off in daycare. With other kids to interact with and a structured schedule. And someone besides mommy all day. He has no other kids to play with.
So I either need to buck up and find some better paying work (writing gigs that pay better than the ones I’ve been getting) or suck it up and get a job. Not something I want to be thinking about right now.