I make the excuse that being a writer allows me to be unnaturally lazy. I tend to allow myself to fall behind on a number of assignments and jobs and responsibilities and call it what it isn’t: Part of being a writer. It has worked for me for a long time. By work I mean I’ve gotten by and sullied my name and reputation in the meanwhile. In other words, I’ve allowed myself to be lazy because I have the talent to get by last minute, but it often results in being overwhelmed and never ever getting better.
Part of being a writer–the part that matters–is getting stuff done. That means creating a lifestyle that allows for improvement and creativity. I can in all honesty say that I have never cultivated a life for myself that allows for that. Instead I have merely gotten by.
Yesterday I was really sad. The more I questioned why the more my thoughts pointed me back in this direction. I am not living the life I want to live. When I got home I started cleaning out old drawers. It felt like a physical reaction to a metaphorical drama. I’m happier now that I have a hold of what it is I really need to do over the next few years of my life in order to set myself on the proper path to live the best version of life for myself, my partner, and our family.