bleah

Here comes griping so if you’re not in the mood, move along. There’s nothing for you here.

I am totally out of sorts these days, all at sixes and sevens and I don’t know why. I’m not working worth a damn. I’m behind on deadlines, cranky with everyone, and just don’t care.

I’m about to turn 50 and I’m still waiting for life to kick in. There’s nothing wrong with my life except I can’t seem to live up to my own potential. I’m pissing away time with piss-ant stories. I have a half-cooked book proposal that’s been growing moldy, a first draft of a novel that I should be revising instead of playing Scrabulous and I really need to be drumming up more paying work but can’t seem to get motivated.

Most of what I’ve accomplished in life has floated my way. The jobs I’ve had, the books I’ve written—I’ve pursued none of it, it’s all come to me. But now that nothing is coming my way and initiative is in order, I am instead sinking into inertia. Well, not inertia, exactly. I stay busy, but it’s a hamster wheel going nowhere. Well, actually, at least if I were on a hamster wheel I would be working out. I’m not doing enough of that, either.

I’ve started making lists and using a kitchen timer to discipline myself. I managed to scratch most items off my list yesterday but “make dentist appointment” has migrated to today’s list. It’s not that I don’t want to go to the dentist, it’s that I don’t want to pay for it, what with Jack’s expensive new fence we’re getting this month.

It would help if I could drum up some good work. But I’m tired and bored and waiting for the Next Big Thing to come my way. Except I should be creating my own Next Big Thing.

I don’t know what to do with myself. Send Twinkies.