This is the time of year when many or most people start thinking of all the shit they are thankful for.* Bully for them.
I've tried to do that whole positive thinking thing, you know, where every day or week or month or hour you think of things you're thankful for, or things you love, or people that rock your world or whatever. However. Even when I try to be positive, most of my thanks are not phrased in a positive way. Example:
I am thankful that I am not a complete asshole, just a partial one. (Note: this is not necessarily true. It's just a damn example, for christ's sake)
or:
I love the way that the tornado did not knock over my house, but at least it got my idiot neighbor's garage.
So. Instead, it is easier for me to stay true to myself and think of things that annoy me, because there are so many more of them, and also, because I am having enough trouble making myself write anything let alone blog entries. I've started and abandoned literally 14 entries in the past month or so, many of which were thoughtful and touching and funny or at least, long. Because I keep making the mistake of trying to write things that are either nice, or interesting, or related to my art, or have some kind of value related to personal growth and all of that kind of woo woo self improvement crap.
And who am I fooling? Really, I'm mostly just rude. And depressed. And kind of annoying to be around, most of the time. I mean for myself. For other people, I'm not just kind of annoying, I'm pretty much unbearable to be around. Which is sad, but such is life.
Anyway, it is Nanwrimo, and I signed up again, but here's the thing: I am not so much of a fiction writer. I can't decide if its because I am so self obsessed that I don't find anyone else, even fictional characters, as interesting as my own mangled brain chemistry, or if because I am too lazy to make up a bunch of stuff and then keep track of all of it since I have a hard enough time keeping track of my real life**. Or, both.
Okay, probably both.
But, even if I'm not going to write a novel, well, I need to at least write SOMETHING. Every day, or at least almost every day. Because supposedly I have all this writing talent and crap and maybe I should use it. I have lots of talents, most of which go unused or are wildly mis-used. All of that is ok when you are like, 20. Or even 30. There's all this time, and even if you don't like your job/career/house/friends/life, you still know there's all this time in the future, and that you're still just starting out, and can't be expected to have everything all nice and settled with a great career, spouse, kids, and excellent cable.
Around 35, you start thinking, Huh. I am kind of an adult. What about my career? My personal life? Have I ever owned a decent car or furniture without three previous owners? Should I breed? Am I happy with my significant other, or, if single, is it time to stop slutting around and get permanently coupled off? Am I ever going to go back and get that degree? Is it time to admit that I might need to stop getting facial tattoos since that one I got on my cheekbone is suddenly near my jawline? And if you haven't done any of these things, by 35, you realize, Whoa. I need to either do it or realize it isn't happening.
Okay, as should be clear by now, I am not normal people. I will turn 42 in two months. And suddenly it occurs to me that not only have I done none of these things, which is fine because I don't care about most of them anymore (if I ever did), but that there are things that I do care about, which I need to, uh, do. I am making dolls pretty much full time, although I always think I should do more, and I also haven't been beading much at all, which I feel guilty about. But, the truth is that neither of these things in themselves is ever going to enable me to make anything approaching an actual living wage.
I mean, I might be able, someday, to make as much as I did being a librarian, but I need enough for like, food.
(god it is SO HARD not to put in a comment about how tax caps and republicans will complete the destruction of a profession already committing suicide from within!!)
So. I need to write. Because as unlikely as it is that I will make a living at it, I might as well add something to my arsenal of unemployability.
Whoa I think I finished this. I think I'm going to post it. SCORE.
*This week, most of them are probably republicans, but then again, I don't usually count them as "people". But whatever.
**Which is surprising because my "real life" is a pretty lame imitation of one and does not contain much worth remembering in the first place.
