Part of starting a blog is my desire to be a writer.  Writing is something I’ve always enjoyed to do – as long as it was not following a school assignment, especially if those assignments included research.  Blech, research!  But a problem that I’ve been having with my free writing, which is a similar problem to those dreadful research about something you’ll never need to know about papers, is this devastating lack of motivation.  Sad.  I finally have all the time in the world to write about those mundane and probably meaningless events from my life, that no one else is bound to care about, even though I’ve had this strong desire to write about it my whole life thus far, and what do I do?  I’ve been watching TV.

Oh TV…  Hopefully I get points for it mostly being the History Channel.  Learning about stuff you’ll never need to know, but unlike public school, it’s somehow extremely interesting and captivating – and more of the things you learn turn into things you know, than in public school.  Granted, I do switch back to Comedy Central every now and than.  I mean, Scrubs is just genius, really.  And I haven’t been a couch potato the whole time.  I have this sweet little stand I put my bike on so I can ride it in front of the TV, in the safety of air conditioning, usually during Scrubs.

And right around here is where I realize, this dream of being a writer, is really my admitting to the world what a loser I really am.

I’m scared to do this.  And that is so, for lack of a better vocabulary even though I’m an English major, retarded.

I mean, let’s break this down.  I didn’t get a job for the summer, I don’t believe in summer classes, my man moved to another country for work, I don’t have pets (but I wish I had a puppy…or two…) or kids (thank goodness!!!), and I don’t actually have a hobby.  I mean, I have two guitars, can tune them, even play a couple chords.  But I don’t.  And, I know how to knit, I’ve kitted things for people before, but even that’s kind of grandma-y.  Or super indie trendy…but either way, I don’t even know where all my knitting needles are in this mess of a room.  And that’s another thing.  I’m OCD when it comes to organizing – but not cleaning.  And yes, there is a difference.  Don’t even try to disagree with me, just think about it.  But just so we don’t skip the big picture, I have all the time in the world to write and I’m just not doing it to the extent I want to.

So bare with me if these posts are rare, bare, or even lame at first.  I could say something cliche about how I’m just spreading my wings to learn how to fly, but writing isn’t as black or white as flying seems to be.  Writing is a process, on going.  Can be good sometimes, not as great others, and can almost always be improved on.  Not that I’ve ever taken enough drugs to try it, but as far as I know when it comes to flying, you’re either off the ground or you’re stuck on it forever.

My head may always be in the clouds, along with my motivation, but at least I’m honest about that.  My honesty to myself is the only way I can simultaneously keep myself grounded.