new old digs

i've moved my computer back into the second bedroom, where i fudged together an office of sorts to write in a couple of years ago. i had shifted out to the living room months ago because i missed hanging wih my honey, but my productivity's for crap. i'm one of those people who can't concentrate with distractions, it seems. i feel isolated spending time in the back bedroom, but i have to choose priorities, and i keep putting writing on the back burner.

my output dribbled to a stop, and now my confidence suffers with it. i have the potential to be a strong writer, but i'm not there yet with story structure and discipline, and i'm not sure at all i'm going to beat the odds and end up a working novelist.

along with the flaccid productivity, i've enrolled in a writing class at the community college. i haven't submitted my best work, but still i hoped to find encouragement and some notice from the instructor, but that's not happening, either. i'm feeling pretty puny in the world of writing, to be honest.

what's interesting, though, is i feel no hesitation with hanging in there. quitting writing has crossed my mind, but only in a fleeting wisp--a mental fart that wafted away and good riddance to it. i'll never be satisfied as a hobby writer--i want to sell stories, to get my work out there to as many people as possible--but it's comforting to realize i'm unafraid to stick it out for the long haul. i may not publish my first novel before i finish school and find a teaching position at some small university somewhere, but i have faith enough in myself to believe i can make it happen if i really want to.

so, i'm back in my lil office--with my electric buddha, my desk fan, my lumpy footrest. back to climb back on that fiction pony and ride until it bucks me off. giddyap, motherhumper.