It seems like I only think about what I don't happen to have at the moment. Between paychecks, I obsess about money and why I never seem to be able to save money. When I flip through InStyle or eye a copy of Vogue at the grocery store, I obsess about my inability to make cool accessory/outfit combinations like "everyone else." Oh yeah, and I don't have anything in my closet by Versace; I can't even afford designers who need to go by a first and last name.
This weekend, I've been going through something I'm not used to. I've been feeling totally overwhelmed and uninspired and I can't figure out why. Then, I think, "If I keep obsessing about why, I'll never get over this." Then, I think, "Oh no! I'll never get over this! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" ::::crockery smashes against the wall:::: ::clouds part:: ::angels weep::
I still analyze because I can't help it. When I think about the ideal writing lifestyle, I think of Washington Irving at his estate, Sunnyside. He had a beautiful view of the Hudson river, pleasure trails to walk on, and a full staff to wash his clothes and cook for him. I don't know if he had a sweet young thing for a muse, but I like to think that's a part of the artistic lifestyle. I watch Supernatural so I can pretend the Winchester brothers are my muses. I sit there and say, "Oooh! He looked at me!" Yes, I'm a sad person. In my vision of the creative life, there's also a lot of really delicious wine that other people buy for me because they want to sit next to me and hope the inspiration rubs off. Like maybe they'll have a vicarious creative experience or something.
Here's my real day---we'll do a week day:
6:50 a.m. Alarm goes off. I hit Snooze.
7:10 a.m. I hit Snooze again
7:15 a.m. I scream, "How did I hit Snooze again? I'm going to be late!"
7:15-7:40 a.m. I run around the house trying to find socks and underwear, run to the door, and realize that's all I've put on and I don't even know where my keys are yet
7:40-8:25 a.m. Drive to work and pray for easy parking that won't dent my car
8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. Goes something like a repeat of the conversation below:
"Yes, you do have to take 2 semesters of pre-algebra."
"No, Mr. X, paying your daughter's tuition does not give you the right to have her grades mailed directly to you." . . . "I understand you're frustrated, but she is in college now." . . . "I feel the same way about you."
"Yes, the withdrawal deadline applies to you even though it took you a week to bury your goldfish and you went to the hospital for a nosebleed after that." . . . "Well, if you went to Las Vegas, it still applies."
"I know you don't want to hear this, but yes, you really do need to go to medical school if you want to be a medical examiner." . . . "I understand they're already dead. I don't make the rules on this one."
4:30 p.m. to about midnight Drive home; stop at library on way; drop off books; pick-up book on Norwegian macrame; stop at grocery store for something I can't remember and buy 10 things I don't need; make dinner; eat dinner; watch tv; snack; try to write something; try to sleep