Not Writing

I had this great idea.

I only have a part time job, right?  That was the idea.  I wanted to work part time, so I could write more.  The problem: I haven't been.  I haven't been writing for our Sunday School Writing Personal Histories class, I haven't been blogging more often than normal, and I certainly haven't been writing my stories.  Which--might I say again--was the idea, in the first place.

So I thought--I'll make myself.  I'll FORCE myself to do something productive for 8 hours of the day.  I'll go to work for 4, come back home and then spend 4 hours either editing pictures from my trip abroad so I can get a step closer to actually scrapbooking, OR I'll write.

'Lady Luck.doc' is open, but that's about as far as I've gotten.

I've decided it's because I don't have any motivation.  I told Rachel that I needed her to help me get motivated, but even though she asks every once and a while if I've written lately, it's not really helping.  I'm not sure if I've stopped writing because I got out of the habit while I was in London, because it just doesn't make me happy anymore, because I don't feel like there's anything to write about, or if it's really down to the motivation.  All worthy of some further digging.

But I know the answer, and I don't want to admit it because there's nothing I can do to fix it.  I need space--a desk preferably.  I need a place to spread out all of my papers, I need 8 hours unbothered, unquestioned, unstepped-over.  Then, once I'm in--I'm good.  I can keep going for hours, for days, for months--until its over or until I voluntarily leave.  It takes work.  I'm at home somewhat alone for 2-3 hours every afternoon (my Dad sits in the other room, relatively unheard and unseen), so I could start, but it's just hard because I know that in 2-3 hours I'll have to clean up.  And that's just not long enough.  That's not good enough.  I've been offered Caitlin's desk (but not by Caitlin, so what good is the offer, really?), but it's so small, and it's not mine.  I'd have to clean that up, too.

But I'm complaining, and what good has that ever done me?
Answer: None.

I need to get out.