I write in my head when I'm laying in bed. It does me no good then. My mind races from idea to idea and if I get up to write them down it would only prolong my chronic insomnia. Some of the ideas are fleeting, others develop into a full story line which is almost always forgotten when I am able to sit down to write again.
That novel I started several years ago? I still think it has potential. I have no idea where my notebook with my writing went. I thought I was organized, but clearly I am not. I've heard that the state of your living space reflects your mental space and mine is cluttered.
It's easy to make excuses for myself. My brother-in-law died last month and the truth of that has brought to the surface issues we all have to face. I want to spend my time on this earth enjoying my family, not doing chores. But chores still need to be done. Circumstances and even tragedy can be spun to give myself excuses why I don't do things. I call bullshit on myself.
Nonetheless, it doesn't seem to spark my drive.
I'm fat and lazy and seem to have lost my writing mojo, if I ever had any. Life seems both too short and too long. I'm both living a dream and thwarting my chances at really living my dream.
When do you know you're not taking enough chances? When is loving your family and being grateful for what you have just being too safe?