OK, so, I’m at that admit you have a problem stage.
I love writing. The act of writing, drafting, editing, all the stages of writing, even being stuck. Love, love, love. I love it like a junkie loves heroin or crack. (That’s still a thing, right? Crack?) I love posting, commenting, critiquing, reading, all facets of the writer world.
But, I have a life. Correction: I’m supposed to have a life. But for some reason, my laundry is NOT getting done. And my house is a borderline pigsty. I’m connecting better with my writer friends, but not as well with my nonwriter friends. I’m sneaking writing into my work day. I’m not advancing on long-term work projects. Neither am advancing on long-term home projects.
I am happier, but I’m not. I tend to take everything for the team player I am when I don’t write.
I must find balance, or I will have to give up writing again. Completely this time. I did that for a while, gave up writing, gave up non-work related reading, gave up TV shows and movies. Any narrative I wasn’t obligated to consume, I left behind. I was miserable, and the ugly little voice that follows me and tells me I am worthless got louder and louder.
I need balance, time management, but also willpower. Part of me says I can’t have balance, I’m like a junkie or an alcoholic, it’s all or nothing with me. I don’t know if that’s the Voice of Reason, or the ugly voice, the one morally opposed to my being happy.
Surely, I’m not the only person who does this. Right?