what i could do

I could tell you how I spend my days. The ones where I don’t have interviews and how I try to fill them with all kinds of something so that the feeling of worthlessness that comes along with not having a job doesn’t creep up on me because it’s always there, no matter how much logic I try to douse it with.

I could tell you about the interviews I had last week. The three of them. And the three that are in the middle of this week, but I don’t – half because the details would be uninteresting, and half because of the jinx factor.

I could tell you how my weekends are spent with the boy, and how Mondays are becoming increasingly harder, but I choose not to in order to keep that somewhat private and part of a place that doesn’t spill out over these pages. Always a battle, what to reveal, what not to. I never know which is better. I flip-flop depending on the day and depending on my mood.

I could describe the trivial things I do and my surroundings and dress them up all prettily and make them sound like poetry, but I know that you’ll see right through that. You’ll see the exertion and the way the words come from a place of effort, though writing should be unforced.

I could talk about the television show I watched last night, the new show that had me in fits of laughter at the absolute absurdity of the dialogue. I could tell you about the basketball game I watched and how I didn’t grasp how staunchly Southern Californian I am when it comes to our teams without even realizing it. I could tell you about the movie I saw yesterday and how it wasn’t what I expected, but enjoyable nonetheless.

I could post excerpts of this whimsical thing that I’m writing for no reason at all, with no deadline or website fueling it, and how it’s easy to just type, type, type away but when it comes to plot, I’m left floundering. The million different ways it could go seem daunting and it makes me want to run away. I could tell you how I’m craving a new book that makes me stay up late into the night unable to put it down. The kind that leaves me pestering friends, telling them to buy it immediately.

I could tell you about the excitement that a play I’ve held near and dear for years is finally making it’s descent into New York and how happy I am that I’ll be able to be a part of the premiere come March. How my plans for New Years Eve are shaping up. And how I’m so damn eager, but how that eagerness is tinged with trepidation and worry over how I’m going to be able to afford it. The push and pull between being good to myself and being responsible.

I could list all the reasons I haven’t written in what seems like forever, but I think I just did.