Gah.

 It irks me that I cannot commit myself to writing. I keep making excuses for myself - I'm sleepy, I need to clean the house, I need to gather stuff together for the online selling stint I plan to do, the baby next Overlady of the Universe (who shall be called Overlady henceforth) needs me to play with her, I'm tired because I didn't get a lot of sleep the previous night, blah blah blah.

Initially I thought the problem was time. I thought that instead of mindlessly googling various reading topics and surfing through cable channels for good shows, I could make myself feel productive by writing blog posts. I even removed the Facebook app from my phone so I do not get tempted to check the newsfeed (for posts from some people I did not really want to be friends with in the first place, but had to "friend" because I went to school with them or went to work with them or are family or are friends with some real friends I have) and signed out of my first Instagram account (so yes, no more looking at pics of people I follow) since I had to create another for the online selling gig.

I realize now that time, or the lack of it, is not the problem. Ten or so years ago when I was in creative writing class for my masterals in Teaching Literature (I know this sounds impressive, but hold your horses because I was a thesis short to graduating - even then I could not bring myself to write), I wrote a short story that sooo made me feel I could carry the title "author" and "writer," that I promised myself I would write and probably get published. My professor, my classmates, and the close friends I have shared the story with seemed to like it a lot, which really encouraged and inspired me to write more. But except for letters to myself and to Sunshine, and some lukewarm entries in so-so blogs I have created over the years, nothing got written.

I have always told myself that life got in the way - I had a demanding day job, and it was stressful to be in my twenties and still live with my family; then I left the family home and started my own - how the bleep am I supposed to write?

Now that I have all the time in the world (okay, except when the next Overlady is awake - to say that she constantly demands my attention is an understatement, and she is just 18 months old), I still cannot write. The only writing I do now with a passion looks something like this after the Overlady is done touching it up.

I swear I wrote something on that piece of paper. Sigh.