I am ridiculously practiced in the art of procrastination and getting quite skilled at being distractible as well. The thing is, I was supposed to be working on becoming more focused and diligent about writing. Two self-imposed deadlines have come and gone and I'm no closer to a finished work than I was two months ago. Infuriated at myself, because I am all-too-aware that I'm shirking the very thing I claim to want so much.
Amazingly, I have not gotten bored, distracted, or fed up with parenting. My sticktoitiveness hasn't gotten a whole lot of exercise in the 42 years I've been breathing. When it comes to people and relationships, I actually fare surprisingly well. I'm far less likely to abandon a friend or loved one the way I might a project or goal. Sadly, I haven't figured out the way to maintain both.
I suppose I shouldn't be too harsh on myself; I've been fairly consumed by raising sons and creating a more positive environment for them and for myself. And I haven't fallen short or given up on either of those things. Maybe if I cut myself a little slack every now and again, I might not feel suffocated by disappointment and the sting of failure. It isn't as though I've not been writing, I just need to write more often and focus on specific content to get to where I need to be.
Routines are things that I have always disliked, though to some extent they are necessary. Like them or not, I seem to be more productive when I work within one. Finding the right one is the tough part. I won't last two minutes if I make things too restrictive, but I won't follow through without enough structure. It's like parenting myself!
Honesty with oneself publicly is certain to be a sign that immediate attention is paid to this issue. Time to make progress. Here goes nothing :)
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