Boiling

My writer's censor says, "Don't write that! Don't put that down! Don't tell them that!"

And my writer's soul says, "Go ahead. At least someone is in your shoes somewhere, and you must write for them..."

There is a burner on under me, heating up, simmering, and boiling over. The fuel is: everyone else I read on Twitter who is touting their published work, their speaking engagements, their rave reviews, their works in progress, their...everything I haven't done...yet.

I'm not mad at them. I'm mad at me. To get this far in life and not do what I really want to do fully must mean I'm not really listening to myself.

So now I'm in a pickle, because I've surrounded myself with successful people and they are my cloud of witnesses, but I can't quite see through my own fog.

I cut myself some slack. After all it is the beginning of the school year and we are in transition at my home.


But then again, no more slack, because slack is what got me here in the first place. I fritter away time like a bowl of nuts you didn't intend to eat, but there it is...the empty bowl staring at you.

Pardon the spit which must be raining down on you front row readers, but it's time to give myself a talking to, and I needed some company. -Enough!

I'm writing...first thing tomorrow morning!