Why, then, does that sound so appealing right now? Why does abandoning everything and becoming a starving artist nomad, limited to libraries and leeching off next-door neighbors and coffee shops for Internet access sound like the next logical step? Why does taking the easy way out sound like a very good idea, just two weeks into the semester?
Someone asked me last night why I was a math major and not a creative writing major, given my devotion to writing. Funnily enough, she's the first person to ask me that since my conversion to the math side. While I do call it a conversion to others, I never do so to myself because it was never a complete one. I haven't turned my back from the scriptory ways, for one.
But sometimes I feel like I have, given how little I've actually been writing lately. Dr. Nbook lies alone, its pages flipped through only occasionally. My original fiction lies untouched, even though there's one story I've been planning to edit for at least two years. Only these pages remain alive and well, and I'm not quite sure about the second part.
I think I may have taken on too much this time. I spent last weekend as the social butterfly that I never was before. Will there be time for that again in the next four months or year, flittering about, doing as I please, not a worry in the world? That's what I crave, this carefreeness (carefreedom?).
I know what I want. I want to spread the love. But I also want to write.
Spread the love. Write. Spread the love. Write.
But somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice is telling me in the form of a lolcat that I am inadequate--for math or writing. What if I go to grad school and wind up failing out because I am, in fact, inadequate? What if I do take my writing to the next level and find out that I've been deluding myself that I was any good at writing in the first place?
Most importantly: What if I wind up living my biggest fear--being normal, being average, being 'just another person living day to day with no passion'? Without passion, there is nothing.
(Incidentally, the wristband for the watch I've worn for over five years broke while I was writing this entry. When I got the battery replaced this summer, the person replacing it asked if I wanted to replace the wristband. I told her no because I was rather fond of it. Now I have an excuse to. Everyone has to let go sometime.)