I consider myself pretty driven, career wise. I graduated college in four years despite transferring schools twice. I've moved up the bank-ladder to reach a management position in three short years. I certainly push myself to excel.
I am trying to understand my lack of motivation in nearly every other area of my life.
First, there are the friendships I have all but abandoned. Yes, I've gotten better about trying to have monthly get-togethers with my college/restaurant and highschool/girl groups of friends. However, I've always been more of a one-on-one type. There are two friends, in particular, who I haven't seen since January. I keep promising myself to remember they are only a phone call away. I need to recognize that being a little emotionally exhausted after work isn't an excuse to come home every night and plant myself on the couch, and that weekends were created for more than just football and loads of laundry.
Next, there's my house. There are piles that have sat untouched for a full year, piles of forgotten wedding planning paraphernalia and future goodwill donations. There's this layer of dust covering every inch of furniture and perpetual pet hair, now practically a second carpet layer just begging for a shampoo. Globs of toothpaste splatter decorate the bathroom mirror, and a weird pink fungus has made a "Signs" like appearnce around the inside of the bathtub. The kitchen linoleum needs to be replaced with tile. The laundry room may as well be used for a haunted house, what with all the cobwebs. That's just the inside of the house. Seven rooms, each begging for attention. Outside, the grass gets higher by the day; the gutters hang on by a thread. But, when I'm honest, I know couldn't care less about any of that. Still, I feel like I should care.
God, I miss living in an apartment.
Finally, there's my writing. When I let myself really focus in on my work in progress, hours pass. The issue is getting started. I open the document, read it, write a few useless sentences, delete them, check facebook, look at the manuscript, sigh, and close it. I look around for windex and furniture polish or call a friend to make plans for the next week -- anything to distract myself. I'm that desparate to avoid the writing.
I want to write. I want to write. I do have the motivation: there is a story to be told. It's a painful process, though, getting it out of me. I realize that it isn't motivation I need in this department. No, it isn't that at all.
It's courage. I need the courage to tell a sad, sad story.
I am trying to understand my lack of motivation in nearly every other area of my life.
First, there are the friendships I have all but abandoned. Yes, I've gotten better about trying to have monthly get-togethers with my college/restaurant and highschool/girl groups of friends. However, I've always been more of a one-on-one type. There are two friends, in particular, who I haven't seen since January. I keep promising myself to remember they are only a phone call away. I need to recognize that being a little emotionally exhausted after work isn't an excuse to come home every night and plant myself on the couch, and that weekends were created for more than just football and loads of laundry.
Next, there's my house. There are piles that have sat untouched for a full year, piles of forgotten wedding planning paraphernalia and future goodwill donations. There's this layer of dust covering every inch of furniture and perpetual pet hair, now practically a second carpet layer just begging for a shampoo. Globs of toothpaste splatter decorate the bathroom mirror, and a weird pink fungus has made a "Signs" like appearnce around the inside of the bathtub. The kitchen linoleum needs to be replaced with tile. The laundry room may as well be used for a haunted house, what with all the cobwebs. That's just the inside of the house. Seven rooms, each begging for attention. Outside, the grass gets higher by the day; the gutters hang on by a thread. But, when I'm honest, I know couldn't care less about any of that. Still, I feel like I should care.
God, I miss living in an apartment.
Finally, there's my writing. When I let myself really focus in on my work in progress, hours pass. The issue is getting started. I open the document, read it, write a few useless sentences, delete them, check facebook, look at the manuscript, sigh, and close it. I look around for windex and furniture polish or call a friend to make plans for the next week -- anything to distract myself. I'm that desparate to avoid the writing.
I want to write. I want to write. I do have the motivation: there is a story to be told. It's a painful process, though, getting it out of me. I realize that it isn't motivation I need in this department. No, it isn't that at all.
It's courage. I need the courage to tell a sad, sad story.
Comments
Writing is like pulling teeth -- it hurts even when it has to be done.
You've got your blog and you do some Flashy.
As Heather keeps telling me...you just have to write, write, write. Go for creating a shitty first draft. Nothing else. No other expectations.
I think I procrastinate because if I don't succeed with this book I'm writing I will have nothing else to hope for. At least that's what I'm convincing myself. But that's wrong too. Yikes, we really do a number on ourselves don't we?
With writing, there are days I can't wait to sit down and days that I have to force every word out. BUt you're right, a lot of that has to do with courage--not motivation.
Sit your butt down and write. Even if its hate mail to your friends for not keeping up with you. Why do you have to be the only one reaching out? Housework can wait... it'll still be there, but write something. Once you force yourself to do it, its harder to stop. I know if I stay home, I can hardly ever right.. so go somewhere. Starbucks does it for me, but you can try some other place. I know you can do it, I've read your log... you have stories begging to be put on paper.
I don't have any suggestions. But if you figure out the answer, do, please, let me know...