To Speed or Not to Speed

I do not speed. I repeat. I do not speed. I hate speeding. I literally go the speed limit no matter how ridiculously slow it is set at. I’m that jerk who sets the cruise control at exactly 45 mph, and blissfully trudges down the road without a care in the world.

I plague my sister and husband to no end with my obsessive need to go the speed limit. I do not care if I am going to be late (which it most often the case). I don’t care if my law abiding ways makes other people late, (I’m a monster I know.) I honestly always go the speed limit. This wasn’t always the case. I too, was once a teenager. Which is precisely why I am not too excited about my son ever learning how to drive. (that is an entirely different story all together.)

I know that most people are probably shaking their fists right now yelling, “Ugh, Autumn, or the people like her, are the most horrible types of drivers out there!” But to be quite honest I would rather be stuck behind a 30 year old who goes the speed limit, rather than a drunk driver going 80. So calm down with that judgement. (animals)

Now, I recently started a job in Ann Arbor. On a good day it takes me 20 minutes to drive from my house to my work. That is only if for some odd reason there is apocalyptic silence on the I-94 freeway. On a bad day, it takes me an hour. One hour! ONE HOUR to drive less than fifteen miles! One hour! (I am going to let that sink in.)

That means, when I have to be at work at 9 am, I have to leave at exactly 8 am to get to work on time. Which inadvertently also means I have to wake up at 6 am just to shake zombie mode off. I like to sleep… I also like to stay awake all night. This traffic is affecting my scheduled 10 hours. 🙄. So I have started speeding. (gasps can be heard around the nation.)

Yes. I, Autumn Araujo, have joined the streets of Michigan and found my brethren. We glide at a comfortable 80 mph. Lines whip past our spinning tires faster than any “line” that was featured in the movie Blow..

Dear Jonny Depp, we would make you proud. Sincerely, Us

I warn you though, speeding is not for the faint of heart, I suggest thinking long and hard before you make that leap into the fast life.

I have noticed my need for speed has tumbled and twisted other parts of my life. In little over three weeks I have become a speeding monster. Anything that takes more than five minutes, is wasting my time. My need for instant gratification has doubled, nay tripled. Even if I am not on my way to work, I speed. I zip and zag, whiz and buzz past all of these glimpses of my former self. “Ha! Lesser humans who go the speed limit, eat my dust(or snowflakes because I live in a winter wonderland)!” I sing in my head as I pass car after car.

Pause. Pump the breaks! (pun intended)

This isn’t me! When did I become so, obsessed with getting everywhere fast? I even walk faster. (side note: someone remind me to buy new shoes).

I have decided that having a job and being responsible for arriving on time has ruined me. Sure this isn’t my first job, nor will it be my last that’s for certain. Nevertheless, even as I am speeding past the slow pokes on the freeway, I long for the day when I was carefree and unhurried. Speeding has caused me stress. I have noticed that I am more aggressive, angrier even. I have developed road rage. The benefits of getting to work on time have caused negative effects in other parts of my life. Lord knows if I keep frowning, I am going to have a permanent wrinkle the size of the grand canyon between my eyebrows. (right now it is tiny but who knows what it will be like after a year on the Speeding Lifestyle.)

I need to give it up, I need to go to speed rehab. (Preferably without the help of a police officer.)

How do I start though? Waking up earlier is not an option. 🙄 I can’t believe you were even going to suggest that. (Amateurs.)

If only teleportation was a possibility! Come on scientists you guys are seriously failing me right now. Step up your game, dammit.

You know who else is failing me? The makeup companies. By now I was hoping that the makeup applicator from The Fifth Element, would have already been invented. Step up your game makeup companies, don’t let the scientists invent teleportation before you give us what we demand. (see how I created a competition between the scientists and the inventors? Fingers crossed it works.) I really want a Makeup Viewmaster! You have big shoes to fill.

If anyone wants to start a petition for teleportation and a makeup viewmaster… I would like to be the first to sign them.

^the original virtual reality goggles.

Teleportation and a makeup viewmaster would help me out quite a lot. It would free up almost two hours of my morning ritual and eliminate the need for speed in one fell swoop. 😭

Dream of teleportation, humans, otherwise our grandkids are going to be the ones to invent it and we can’t let them get all of the credit.

**edit** it is 7:37 am the following day and I must have annoyed the Overlord of Traffic because I am a half an hour early for work. 😏 that is a half hour that I could have been sleeping…


Stay-cation For My Sanity

Tonight my husband and I are staying at a seedy hotel in downtown Ann Arbor. A luxurious sixty-eight dollar a night, hotel with all the amenities except good coffee and a stocked minibar. I say seedy but it happens to be really clean. I might have a germ problem so I not only changed the sheets the second I walked into the room, but I also looked under the bed, behind the shower curtain and deep cleaned the serve-yourself coffee maker. I am cheating on my diet during this vacation so you can damn well bet that my decaf with Sweet’n Low and pilfered coffee creamer from the diner across the street are going to be drinking from a clean and properly maintained coffee maker.

For many reasons, I begged my husband to take this little vacation. I didn’t need to go anywhere exotic or for a long time. Three days away from my house is perfect. Luckily, my family understood and offered to watch our son so that my husband and I can get back to the marital roots so to speak and walk around nude if we want to. I have been looking forward to this stay-cation for almost a month. Even though we are literally doing the same exact thing we would be doing had we been home, however, here he is sleeping on a ridiculously overpriced bedspread, while I tap away at a desk that I would love to cart back to my house.

The lights are dimmed low, the fan whispers across my skin and the quiet tunes of some HBO sitcom float around the room. I am content. I needed this. Many times I think we as people forget that relaxing is something that is fundamentally important for our mental wellbeing. At home, there are a billion and one things that I need to do. From the moment I wake up, until the moment I pass out exhausted at the end of the night, I am on the go. I should be skinny damn it! I never stop! Why the hell am I a chunky potato! WHY!?

My little vacation didn’t start out as I planned. I planned on being at the hotel at three o’clock to be able to start the vacation with a nap. However, I ended up waiting hours at the DMV, then running around trying to get everything ready. (I procrastinate. Don’t judge me.) I even forgot the snacks! I will not forget the snacks tomorrow. Now, if all of this running around wasn’t bad enough, I got pulled over by the cops while we were dropping off our son with his grandma after dinner. Before you assume that I am some type of hardened criminal that was running away from the law, I assure you that it was all because of a short in my headlight.

Side note: why in the hell are all cops sneaky ninjas? This guy came out of NOWHERE! I mean I wasn’t mad just a little nervous because they have mastered the skill of making people terrified for no reason other than seeing those colorful lights flick on. I didn’t get a ticket. Nor did I get a warning. Pretty sure the guy didn’t even look in my back seat. Spoiler alert: my son was in the back seat. 😀 He just told me to get the light fixed, hit my car a few times to see if the light would come on (ASSAULT) and then went back to his truck. My heart was beating a mile a minute.

Back to my vacation, I am insanely happy right now because I have pizza ordered and on the way. It is one in the morning and I feel like a teenager. I am starving because I haven’t had any carbs in over three weeks and when I commit to breaking my diet… I break it good. I sincerely hope my husband doesn’t wake up and punch the pizza guy for knocking. I also secretly hope that he wakes up to the glorious smell of Pineapple on pizza and fall in love with me even more. My luck he will rant and rave about me ordering pizza at one a.m. but I regret nothing. If he gets snippy, then he gets no pizza. Mama don’t play.

I wish that everyone could take a little stay-cation and get early morning pizza. It feels great to sit here with my fluffy pajamas and not have to set an alarm for the morning. It feels amazing that I don’t have to go to sleep early. Or wake-up and instantly apply my makeup to head to work. It feels great that I don’t have to cook breakfast and that I don’t have to hear the pitter patter of feet in the morning. Or have my twenty-pound cat stand on my chest because he declares I sleep too much. “Feed me human.”

I like that I can just veg out and watch movies I have already watched, and debate spending a ridiculous amount of money on pay-per-view. I want to take advantage of this time off and go out and explore Ann Arbor, (even though I live here) but I am also deeply and emotionally invested in relaxing all day without moving from this hotel bed. We are going to take a day trip tomorrow to Ohio but I intend to return to this room so quick. I just hope my husband is on the same page as me. I want to nap and sleep with no clothes on during the day. I want to order take out and just talk. I don’t believe that this is too much to anticipate when it comes to a stay-cation. I want to go back to work on Friday with a skip in my step and a smile on my face.

With that being said, my sexy Hawaiian pizza is here. Vacation on my humans.

Love is a Bitch

Ahh the famous line. Love is a bitch. A quick Google image result will leave you with a sour taste in your mouth when you see meme after meme and quote after quote that express the sentiment that love is a bitch.

The American Dream is what we all strive for. A husband or a wife, nice two-story house with a picket white fence, a couple of kids and a golden retriever running around in the perfectly maintained yard (clearly the work of Satan). Even if we don’t actively say that we are working toward this illusion of happiness we certainly are. (Not everyone, but the ones who disagree are the people you should watch closely, very closely). They probably have their proverbial shit together.

The American Dream comes with its own half-sized order of true love. A-run-for-the-hills… .Hashtag blessed relationship. Bah humbug! Ghost of relationship past.

I am not entirely sure that true love exists. Yes, I am typing this up while my “hashtag soul mate” sleeps peacefully next to me. I love my husband. I knew that he was the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with from the day I saw him turn around and flash that lady-killer smile at me. At the risk of sounding cliché, I know that I made the right decision when I said “I Do”.

So why am I such a cynic when it comes to love? Because love is a bitch. It is raw, ugly, and painful. It isn’t all of those puke worthy kisses and hashtags people of the world are so obsessed with. Love isn’t easy. Love is gut-wrenching. It feels like a put a knife in your belly, twist, and pray to whatever deity you believe in that you make it out alive type of feeling. (Or at least, with all of your limbs).

Love is endless nights of worry.

Love pours out of our eyes in the shape of tears, to draw crisp battle lines down our cheeks.

Love dampens our pillows at night after a fight, it pools at the bottom of the shower. It wets the collar of our shirts and it drags its good for nothing self-serving existence to dry with a piece of our broken heart.

Thousands upon thousands of prayers sent heavenward with the hope that the pain will be magically wiped away as the sun rises.

Love is a Bitch.

Love is like wearing beer-goggles for the rest of your life without drinking any beer. 🙄 (Not fair).



Why is something so sweet such a horrific thing? Why do we hurt the people we love? How is that even love?

How is yelling and screaming at the top of your lungs about this or that, even remotely resembling the definition of love?

How does a person cheat on their spouse? A person they swore to love and honor “’til death do us part”.

How does a man lift a finger out of anger to the woman he professes to care for?

How does a woman sleep around and bed her boyfriend’s best friend? Then have the audacity to call it love.

I love you, but…

I want to be with you forever, but…

I’m sorry I was wrong, but…

I’m sorry I lied, I won’t do it again, I wasn’t thinking, I was angry.

That isn’t love. Love doesn’t rant and rave about the laundry not being folded, or the dishes that aren’t washed.

Love is only as strong as the people who build it up together. It takes hard work, and patience to keep it on the right path. It takes laughter and memories. It openly encourages focus and perseverance. It is soul shattering and uplifting.

I am a cynic of the commercial definition of love. True love doesn’t exist outside of parent/child relationships. The only person I would do anything for without question is my son. (Keep that a secret, I have zero intention of skydiving, even if he begs).

There is a song titled “Love is a Bitch” and I think they get it.

Kudos to the people who honestly have a working, loving relationship. You are an anomaly my friend.

Until the next, #humans.




Failure Has Many Faces 

Why are we, as humans, so petrified of failure? The idea of failing rocks us from deep inside our subconscious brains. The sweaty palms, rapid breathing, nervous ticks, and even insomnia tell us “No! This is unacceptable!”

But why?

The dictionary defines failure as the lack of success. Synonyms are listed as defeat, collapse, and nonfulfilment. Is it actually a bad thing though? If we do not succeed at everything does this automatically make us a failure? A loser? 

I personally have seen people have emotional breakdowns because they failed at something. Myself included. I am certainly not immune to feelings of defeat. I believe defining failure depends on how you define success. A failure for some could literally be defined as success for others. So how do we measure what we believe to be a failure?

Growing up when I got a C in a class, I would be grounded. Toys, bikes, television privileges taken  away, yet when one of my siblings would get a C my parents would congratulate them with a pat on the back or a “Good job.” EXCUSE ME!? 

Imagine my surprise when time and again I got grounded. My mom told me it was because she knew that I could get A’s easily without studying so when I got a C it was because I didn’t try my hardest. It is true, I was a lazy student in high school, but come on! All those hours of tv I missed! I could have crammed one more hour of MTV’s The Real World in! (Don’t worry, I eventually caught up, take that parents, I got the last laugh).

So my failure to be a good student got me grounded a couple (dozen) times. I lived and learned. My first round of college was easy. I flew by with a 4.0 by doubling up my classes. I graduated in half the time as others. (My humbleness is lacking here I know. Sometimes you have to brag.) Success was on my side.

Was that a success or was it raw determination to prove that I could do it? (One hand tied behind my back, blindfolded sort of thing) (okay, okay I am done bragging.)  How can I measure that as success if I knew that without a doubt I was going to accomplish the goal that I wanted. There wasn’t resistance nor obstacles that stood in my way. Had there been, I would have still trudged on.

Have I succeeded at everything I have decided to do? Absolutely not! I am a train wreck when it comes to certain parts of  my life. A hot mess if you will. I, like so many people, fear failure. It is like a vise grip around my throat threatening to cut off the oxygen supply. I get just enough sweet air to scrape past but the threat of failure is always quivering in anticipation to claim me. Always lurking in the background like an ominous shadow, one hand on my shoulder as it steers me around like a brainless puppet.

So that brings me back to my original question, why are we so petrified of failure? Why is failing so demonized in our minds? From the dreaded failed class to divorce we let the fear of failure dictate how we approach things in our day-to-day lives.

A writer doesn’t send their manuscript to a publisher because they already received four different denials, but the book they wrote could inspire the next generation into greatness. The fear of getting one more denial is concrete failure, so he or she sets their book aside.

A woman stays in a hateful relationship because she does not want people to wag their fingers and say “Oh I told you so.” So she stays trapped, unhappy, and silent. A smile on her face in public while tears pepper her pillow every night.

A child is told that their  ideas aren’t as good as they believed, so they stop thinking for themselves and begin to follow the mindless horde of organisms surrounding them.

There are over six billion people on this planet and double that in examples of  failure. I am sure every single person has experienced countless failures through the course of their lives. (If I think really hard, I am sure my failures add up to a couple hundred thousand). So why in the hell are we so scared to forge through our failures and grab it by the proverbial balls? Failure is not an end all. Life doesn’t just stop after a failure. It creeps by with the ticks of a clock just like it has since the first breath of consciousness.

Why is “failure equals bad” drilled into our brains from the beginning instead of coping methods for failure? Sure there are proverbs that we as humans have said over and over to make us feel better about a failure, but it is like giving a band-aid to someone with a bruise. They aren’t effective.

If I wanted to learn how to skateboard and continuously fell off of the board, someone could tell me to pick myself up and dust my knees off a thousand times and I am still going to be wary of getting back onto a skateboard. It is common sense. We learn from our mistakes and it just so happens that by learning from that mistake we oftentimes learn that avoiding the situation altogether is easier.

Failure is unavoidable! Sometimes success is just dumb luck! We cannot let the fear of failure stop us from trying new things and going father than we could ever imagine. If we all stopped trying to accomplish our goals then there would be no progress in the world. If our ancestors would have given up with each failure we would still be huddling around a cave in the dark.

The saddest part of this would be that no one would be able to read about my random ramblings/personal pep talks. I write what I feel and oftentimes writing helps me work through my own problems. Even though I like to think of myself as unique, I am plagued by human emotion, (I wish I was more like Spock) and the fear of failure keeps me trapped in my own hell.

I know there are others that feel the same, so I guess what I am trying to articulate is that: Don’t stop. Don’t close your eyes against the fear. Don’t let it stop you because regret is worse than failure. Pushing forward is harder and more complicated but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t worth the effort that you extend. Walk away from that disastrous relationship, submit that manuscript, dream big. DO NOT LET SOCIETY KEEP YOU FROM BEING THE GREATEST VERSION OF YOURSELF! 

Failure has many faces. Not all of those faces are frowning. The trick to overcoming failure is to be determined and motivated. If you keep both of those aspects in mind then, failure is a temporary ailment that can be changed into success. Embrace the fear of failure like a long-lost lover, then let it float into the empty void of useless emotions.

Failure can be the beginning of success. Sleep easy humans. Tomorrow is another day.


New Years Kiss

Here we go again. All across the home we call Earth, people are ringing in the New Year with a kiss. Countless people are crammed into tiny bars, and clubs with fog machines thickening the air. The music beats against ear drums and the hum of excitement pulses through the crowds like a heartbeat of its own. Men and women alike are anxiously awaiting their New Year’s Kiss. A kiss that will bring in the new year with a bang. There are others getting a kiss from their spouse. There are boyfriends/girlfriends holding tight for the kiss that solidifies their love. One night stands are beginning and ending. Then we have the lonely horde of singles watching the New York ball drop quietly at home with a bottle of wine and their pets. The ever famous notes of Auld Lang Syne being strummed across every New Year’s Party. I can hear the echoes of the song from the comfort of my ridiculously comfortable bed, while I lay cuddled up under my electric blanket.

My question, however, is why we find this kiss to be the one to beat them all? Why is the New Years kiss and the swapping of digestive saliva so important? Why is it acceptable to get a sloppy alcohol infused kiss from John Smith who tastes like Jaeger Bombs and bad decisions?(No offense John Smith, I wasn’t trying to single you out.)

The New Year’s Kiss has become a monster in its own right. An evil, lurking, slimy kiss that traps us into this preconceived notion that if we do not get it then the rest of our year is going to be a cold, lonely, dark place. How can we live with ourselves knowing that at precisely 12 a.m. January 1st, 2018 we did not receive a kiss for the New Year!?

I may be bitterly gnashing this out from the comforts of my bed because my husband decided to take his regularly scheduled nap on the recliner in the livingroom instead of giving me a big smooch. I am guilty of possibly throwing a fit because instead of getting my New Year’s kiss he marched by me without a word and got comfortable in his favorite chair. After throwing a little fit where I exclaimed on Facebook about 2018 being a shit show because I did not receive the kiss everyone covets, I calmed down. A kiss might I add, that I should get for free because I am married. Duh… this is a thing. I did not have to stand in any crowded fog filled room, or have to search for my kissing partner because the piece of paper that I signed when I got married solidified my kiss for the next couple decades. How could he!? With a pout and a tad bit of depression, I watched as he peacefully fell asleep, my perfectly painted lips set in an angry “um wtf” look. Married life is soooo exciting.

*Soap Opera narrator chimes in*

Today on Married to a Writer, Autumn and Mario enjoy a quick spat. Autumn exits stage right and Mario falls asleep. Stay tuned for tomorrow’s show to see what happens (Spoiler Alert: Autumn forces Mario out into the frozen wasteland that is Michigan to eat breakfast with the locals.) Yay Breakfast!

After wallowing in my own self-pity I started thinking. Why am I making such a big deal about this damn kiss? Would my life forever be changed if instead of falling asleep my husband marched up to me and gave me a big-fat-I-love-you-to-the-moon-and-back-kiss? Maybe, but now we will never know will we?

Bitterness aside, why is this kiss so important to me, and to every other person around the world? My husband literally kisses me every day, he hugs me when I am sad, he gets up from his comfy chair to get me a bottle of water even when I am closer to the fridge, he gives me head massages when I am having a migraine. He shows me that he loves me every day so is this kiss really even that important?

Why am I so upset? Being the person that I am, I decided to find the culprit that invented the tradition of a New Year’s Kiss and decide on how I could torture them for eternity.

My research lead me on a wild goose chase to pinpoint the exact time that the monster kiss became a thing. Thanks a lot Ancient Rome! Thousands of years have passed and you hedonists are still wrecking havoc on our lives. Bravo.

I bet they are proud of themselves. They escaped my torture for now, barely. When is time travel going to be a thing? I have a list of things I would like to address. Ancestors, am I right? Sheesh!

By now my curiosity had gotten the better of itself and I needed to know more. I was not disappointed. Apparently, there is a New Year’s tradition in Scotland called Hogmanay. I live in Michigan so the only accent I can do is Canadian. Sorry Canada.

Hogmanay is a huge celebration that spans a couple of days. The festival has its traditional aspects including food, drinks, and the giving of gifts, but it also has some rather unorthodox views of the New Year’s Kiss. Unorthodox does not mean bad! It is a single person’s dream holiday for New Years! Not so much a germaphobe’s.

Everyone gets a kiss! We all know the Scottish like their parties so it is a happy affair where kisses are handed out like candy! Could this be a dream come true for some? No more searching for who to kiss, no more disappointment or a sad evening spent alone with your cat. (No judgement, I too am accompanied by my cat). The Scottish might be onto something. Hopefully Scotland sees this and gives appropriate thanks to the influx of tourism I am sure this blog will bring to them next year. In case they don’t: You are welcome Scotland. May your kisses be germ-free and plentiful.

Does any of this automatically make the importance of the New Year’s kiss dwindle? Probably not. However, to the ones who didn’t get the kiss they wanted or did and it totally sucked, (dang it John you had one job), just know I understand your disappointment. I have been in both positions and I can tell you that, in my opinion, this kiss we obsess about from December 1st until January 1st isn’t as romantic like we all believe it to be. Most of us will wake up in the morning exactly the same person we were when we went to sleep. So even though I absolutely plan on torturing my husband for the next five years for his bad judgement on sleeping instead of kissing, the night was not wasted because I managed to give my son and niece their first lovey kisses of the year.

Did I unintentionally create the obsession for them to get a kiss every year on New Years? Is this how the obsession starts? Did I just set them up for the rest of their lives for disappointing drunken kisses? I certainly hope not, but maybe it is a rite of passage that all of us have to endure. Traditions are just a way to connect us in a world of separation so maybe all of us are doomed to experience every stage of the New Year’s Kiss.

I hope all you smoochers used tic-tacs. Happy New Year Humans, may 2018 be exactly what you need.





Middle age?

I turned the dreaded 30 this year… More and more I wish my life to be like the fabulous 30s that are portrayed in the movies. Am I the Jennifer Garner of Thirteen Going on Thirty? Or is it going to be the Charlize Theron of Monster?

I am honestly holding out for the Jennifer Garner version.

Life goes by so fast. Yesterday I graduated High School (good God it has been 13 years.) and now I’m sitting in a hot bubble bath contemplating how my 30s are going to pan out next to a pine scented candle and a peeping Tom watching me from across the room..

Don’t be alarmed that peeping Tom is my slightly overweight cat who doesn’t understand personal boundaries.. 🤔

If only we could get one free pass to go back and change one thing in our past. I would use it wisely I swear. Probably… Maybe. Who knows I was a reckless youngster, boy-crazy and naive. Come on universe just let me pep talk younger me. Life would be so different.

To clarify I would likely still be in the bath with my cat staring at me, my son would still be tucked in bed and my husband would be snoring peacefully in his favorite chair, but I would be fabulously rich and my pine candle would most certainly not have been bought at a yard sale.. 😂

Which brings me back to my original concept. Am I middle-aged? My back ground music isn’t helping these melancholy thoughts.. Johnny Cash….. You lyrical genius..

My back hurts when I stand up too fast.. My knees creak and crack when I sit down or roll out of bed. I am developing crows feet from smiling and I may or may not have plucked a few grey hairs the other day. Not even grey. SILVER! I’m going to be a sparkly witch one day.

I sure hope reincarnation is what happens. Next life I would like to be a glorious New York socialite that goes to fancy New Year’s Eve parties dressed in a $2000.00 diamond studded dress. However, I am content in my life. I have everything a woman needs. A great family and more happy days than bad ones.

As I grow older and older, the thoughts of what I messed up always find a way back into my mind. They weren’t huge mistakes. On the contrary, those mistakes obviously led me where I am now, but small things I would have changed. For example, I wouldn’t have cut my bangs in high school. Sheesh what was I thinking? I wouldn’t have smoked my first cigarette. I would have began writing my book sooner. I would have been braver. I would have travelled the world (safely). I would have partied less and went camping more. Regrets make it seem like I am not happy so I don’t like saying that word. I think the right word is missed chances.

Missed chances in your twenties should be adventures in your thirties. So what if we are middle-aged? Doesn’t mean that we won’t have the same chances again. We will just be a tad bit crinkly around the eyes.

With that I’m off to take my old ass to bed. Beauty sleep is crucial at this point.


Floating Words

Life is full of epiphanies. Epiphanies come in different forms and sizes. They start to occur when you are young and something begins to take shape and you realize something about yourself. It can happen at any moment. I had an epiphany when I realized I was a storyteller. Then again when I understood that I could change my stories into the written word.

I also had an epiphany…. when I realized that I am not only a procrastinator, but also mildly lazy. I like sitting on my big comfy couch and binge-watching show after show on Netflix while sipping hot chocolate cuddled into the Snuggy my parents bought me a couple of years ago for Christmas and not caring about a damn thing.

I have stared at the computer screen for a long time trying to decide what to write about. Sometimes the words come to me like a trickling stream, other times it floods in like a waterfall. The problem is trying to figure out which one it will be. Writing is an escape and one that I need most of the time. It is an easy outlet that lets me express my feelings. It helps me evaluate my own reactions and analyze the reason I feel certain ways. I keep diaries like they are going out of style. The worst part about it is that I also have a small obsession with paper and journals in general. I will eventually need an intervention when it comes to sales on discounted paper. It isn’t even just journals, it is stationary, computer paper, cardstock, greeting cards. There is no end to my obsession. If it is on sale I MUST have it or my life won’t be complete. I have an entire section of my bookshelf that is nothing but empty journals waiting to be filled with my ever-changing handwriting.

I think that my passion for paper and written word has been absorbed by my son and niece. Especially my niece. She is almost as bad as me. She is always writing down something and it warms my heart to see that she has the same passions that I do. I joke with my sister all of the time that my son is more like her and her daughter is more like me. It is awesome that I have inspired someone to be motivated by the written word. Now all I have to do is motivate myself and get my book published. Or at least finish the first draft. The words are rumbling around my brain like mosquitos. I know they are in there but the won’t form an orderly line like they are supposed to. I imagine them like the keys in Harry Potter that have wings. Flitting about with no rhyme or reason until they have a purpose. I need a purpose.

Image result for WRITERS JUICE

Or a swift kick in the rear to get me going. They say taking a step back from your book and giving it time to speak to you is a good way to get the proverbial literary juices flowing but my book is a mute jerk who taunts me from afar. (I bet it would stop taunting me if I took an eraser to it.)  YOU MONSTER! That is six years of late nights and gallons of coffee. You aren’t supposed to agree with me…An eraser isn’t going to work. Douse it in FIRE! Joking. Ugh. Someone send me some inspiration.

Be lazy my humans.