And then some...

I've lived my whole life with one intention in mind--to publish a book. I walk through my days considering myself a writer. But honestly, when is the last time I wrote? I'm just so unmotivated when it comes to stringing words together. I'd rather spend my free time with friends or an episode of a vampire/lawyer/crime/hospital show. It's sad really.

Writing and reading have fallen to the waysides and I've become engrossed in ensuring my future will give me money, recognition, self-fulfillment, and stability. My passions have been seeped out. They haven't changed, but they're no longer priority. My second grade intentions are lost in memories of second grade.

Then I start doubting. I never won a creative writing competition in junior school. I'm not as creative as I used to be. There are a million better writers out there.

And through researching, I've found that publishing companies won't read manuscripts without the author being represented by an agent.

I'm doubting.

There's so much to do in the hours of a day... have to socialize with friends, have to make money, have to spend time with the boyfriend, have to spend time with the family, have to look good and put together, have to work out, have to make money, have to eat right.

These are the same complaints everyone makes, but somehow I thought I'd be immune to them. My craft would help me. I would follow my passions in life even it was hard. I would make it.

Now I don't even know what my intentions are. I cling to the second grade me, but I doubt.

And doubting leads to watching the latest episode of People Doing More Interesting Things than Me. There goes a quarter of those hours that I so desperately think I need more of.

Ending a sentence with a preposition. Yes, that is how I choose to leave my drawn-out complaining.