Groundhog Day

I feel like my life is very much like the movie Groundhog Day. The one where Bill Murray keeps living the same day over and over. Except my repetitive life happens annually and not daily. While at times I appreciate Facebook sending me pictures of what I was doing some years ago on that very day, I often find that I am doing the same thing very near to that same day. Like baking pies for Thanksgiving. Like going to the Chinese New Year’s parade down in Chinatown. It is kind of disturbing to me.

Then I start thinking that I need to do different things. Try different things. Maybe take up a hobby. I frequently envision myself playing the guitar and singing. Then I think that it is not in a cool, campfire at the beach way but more like the nun in the movie Airplane when she keeps knocking the dying girl’s IV out. Or something along those lines. I have a guitar, in the closet. It was even refurbished so that it would be easier for me to play. And I’ve got a book. And there is always the internet. I should have kept trying when I was younger but I didn’t.

But maybe if I took up trying to play the guitar, it would help to break the cycle. Of course, if I can’t even seem to find time to write, how would playing the guitar work? Because really it should be more about the writing. I have always liked to write. But I was always afraid to write. I was always afraid that I would be laughed at. That I would be judged. That I would not be good enough. I still felt this way to some extent when I started this blog. I was moving. Quitting my job. Going to live with my mother for six months. All of those things were scarier than writing. Scarier than putting it out there. So I did. And then somehow I ended up in the magazine produced by my work. Shameless self-promotion (see latest article here). But at times, instead of embracing the need to write I don’t. For no good reason.

I wish I could be more dedicated. Ensure that there is time set aside to write. Potentially every day. It could be done. I know that it could. And sometimes, just sometimes, I think that the writing, that is what I’m supposed to be doing. And all of these baby steps. These opportunities, are telling me that. Reassuring me that this is actually the case. In my head, this solves all of my problems. My imaginary writing career. Maybe someday that will be the case but not quite yet. Hopefully, there is still time and the will to get there.

 

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About nematomorph

Living like the rich and famous, splitting time between Hawaii and New York.
This entry was posted in family, Hawaii, midlife crisis, New York, Uncategorized, Work, writing and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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