Though I feel as if I am out of bed before the majority of the rest of the world, even at 6am there are cars and buses careening down Geary. Therefore, someone else must be up.

When I am up this early, I like to try to get something done. I have to make good use of the gray hours of the morning, since my thoughts slow to a crawl around 3pm and after 8pm I'm only good for sleep.

I sound old. I am old. Figuratively speaking.

This particularly early morning, I have decided that either I am going back to sleep, or I am beginning the first chapter of Book 2 of my Trilogy.

If I do the former, I will feel so good. If I do the latter, it will suck, but I will feel as if I am finally doing something with my $40k degree.

Oh the dilemma. Book 2 does need to be started, because if she doesn't get started, then Book 3 will never be written, and I will never find out how my main character solves or does not solve the problems, or whether or not she figures out who she is and what she wants from the world.

Are we still talking about fiction?

Plebeian

I meant to begin a new post, but instead I clicked "view blog" and upon viewing said-blog, I was struck by my inability to articulate much of anything anymore. My writing has descended into fragments and clipped phrases, necessitating the supplemental picture to say, "Look here, you're going to want to see/read this." And you're convinced because I can collage. (Sentence Fragment)

Check me out: I'm disintegrating.

Poetry is a bitter vitamin, horse-sized, the kind you have to force yourself to swallow, and the kind you feel the whole way down as it presses against your vitals and stretches out your insides.
The writing and reading of poetry stem from the desire to be (want/felt/needed/real/heard/inspiring/inspired/lied to/escaped) and inevitably result in a moment of word-dwelling followed by a self-assured pat on the back--either because you have understood what the writer has written, or because you have written something no one else will understand.

These days, I leave poetry alone.

Virgin America is awesome

Z and I are sitting in the terminal right now, waiting to board the plane to SAN DIEGO.

That Chair Z is sitting in? That's a Virgin America luxury. They're all over the place.

This weekend marks the end of our first year of marriage. It's hard believe it's been a full year; I simultaneously feel as if it can't possibly have been that long, and that we've been married all our lives.

I am sure we will spend a lot of time in reflection this weekend, thinking over the things we've done, the goals we've accomplished, the dreams yet to come.

However, right now, I can only think of one thing:

SEA WORLD. SEA WORLD.

Image Source

To be specific:

DOLPHINS. DOLPHINS. DOLPHINS.

Images: Source, Source, Source, Source, Source

I love dolphins. I'm pretty sure only my sisters and cousins can understand my obsession with these creatures. Suffice it to say, I am stoked. So stoked I almost started crying in the car on the way to the airport. Because I was so excited. I am almost as excited to go to Sea World as I was this time last year to go to Costa Rica.

Almost.

Will someone else plan my lessons for me?

Today was not productive at all. In fact, today was counterproductive--

and not because I wasn't working on what I was supposed to be working on, not because I wasn't working at all, but because, through working on what I was supposed to be working on, I figured out that I had DONE. IT. ALL. WRONG. Three weeks' worth of lesson planning done completely wrong. Un-useable junk.

Well, at least I understand the curriculum now.

Right now, I should be feeling frustrated. But, due to my quitter attitude and my procrastinator's mentality, I am seeing this as an opportunity to stop trying. At least for today.

Yesterday, I finished all but four points on my extensive to-do list. Today I only finished one. I made the bed. *pats self on the back*

Blocked

I'm trying to write - fiction - and I can't remember how. I read over things I wrote last year and it's like those words are from another person, another imagination. It's only been a month since I last wrote anything new. Shouldn't it be easy to pick up the pen, or open the Word Doc, and put words down? How does a sentence go? How do I close my eyes and be suddenly someplace else, then find a way to describe it so someone else is there, too?

I hope this is a phase. I suppose the only way to make it a phase is to push myself out of it. Book Two of my trilogy wants to be written. Maybe I will start there.

Discipline?

I have none. No discipline. Whatsoever.

This is a problem on many levels. Except one. When I know I should be getting something done (ie: Lesson Planning), I do something else awesome (like make an amazing craft). The thrill of knowing I am supposed to be doing something else serves as great creative juice.

Bad.

Also, I am not giving myself the One Line a Day book. Because I failed to prove to myself that I could do it. Not only that, but I don't have enough discipline to only write one line. Once I start, it just keeps going. Evidenced by this post.

I suppose I could argue that not-buying the book because I failed to be disciplined is a form of discipline. But that's only because I want to feel better about it.

And here comes a collage of what I've been up to these past few weeks (details to come):

Know what I really want?

A sewing machine. And a Silhouette machine. One is more useful than the other.

I like this sewing machine. Anyone have any other suggestions?

Singer 7258