Attempts have been made

But, like I obsess about, there’s only so many hours in a day. And now that I have a second, at-home job my mind is constantly fixated on working on creative projects. It used to happen as soon as the semester started, then it would die off by the time final papers were turned in. So I haven’t earned a cent from my at home job in weeks, but I’ve been writing every day. When I can. After I bike before I make dinner. With laptop set up on the kitchen table so my husband can play video games in the living room without distracting me. As much as I can on the weekends. Sometimes I regret that I learned long, long ago that cleanliness=happiness, because it goes the other way too. It could be worse, but it still bothers me.

I do think of this blog often, though I’m sure you can’t tell. But the time that was once devoted to my 1750 word blogs is funneled elsewhere. I’m aware it’s hilarious I talk about how I want kids yet I can’t stop myself from complaining about not having any time. I have no delusions about the stress of motherhood.

Also it could be argued I’m on this blog less because I have less I need to tell internet strangers about. I still haven’t told another soul about the incidents of last July. Because I still maintain that my husband freaking out on me (a backlash for my whole heartedly attacking him) was worse than when I cornered him into admitting what he did.

I guess a person would say it hasn’t been all that long, that I’m expecting better from someone who has proven they’re not better.

But I mean, emotions aside aren’t the two options to get over something or to not? And if you get over it you have to figure what you want, like is this too much to forgive? Do I just leave? Do I make him leave? What if that’s not what you want?

Not that I knew why I wanted that, but I can imagine now it probably had something to do with the idea that I do love him. And practically, I’m not starting over, I’m not explaining my family situation to an outsider. I don’t like doing that. Not because I don’t want to talk about it, but because it makes other people so uncomfortable, and then it just turns awkward. I guess most people don’t fantasize about one of their parents dying every day. But I do. I also work on a novel every day, and am never not thinking about my characters like they’re real fucking people. So clearly I’m all sorts of special.

I’ve been having my husband read the excerpts I’ve deemed ready. He likes it so far, is good at pointing out when I’m getting confusing, but it is SO strange hearing someone else say their names.

It’s lived in my head too long, I’ve thought about them too much. If I don’t write their story I’ll probably go insane, not from the weight of my own genius but from the steering disappointment in myself.

So, one day Cassie Stevens’ picture will grace the back cover of a novel, until then I have so much else to work on I’d have to be crazy to ever think myself bored.

Things are all right with my husband and I. He hasn’t snuck out and had sex with a stranger from Craigslist since July…so…..

well lunch is almost over. I’ll make attempts to do this more during lunch, which is more than enough time for me to eat but it’s also sacred reading time. I just finished Drown by Junot Diaz, and I’m very sad there’s nothing else of his for me to read.


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