I’ve been thinking a lot lately. That’s the kind of thing that happens while you sit at your desk, knitting until your fingers and wrists go numb, watching millions of images load ever so slowly on your dino-dial-ups for Pintrest. There’s been topics fluttering in my mind, words to mash out on this blank screen… but knitting doesn’t work well with typing. You loose your count and your train of thought all at one time. Trust me.
And it’s hard to work on this, when you need to work on that. Priorities wrestle with wants. Needs fling mud at desires. Options and choices wrestle in the jello pit that once was a functional brain. Everything fights you, time, budgets, noises, small people wanting things.
It’s like the first time I looked into selling handmade goods on Etsy, they say, “Choose one medium”. Choose one. Like that’s possible for me. I can knit, crochet, draw, paint, sew, quill, carve, stamp, shape… not that I have valuable skills in every form, but choosing one is like asking me if I want to keep my right or my left leg… um, all please?
I want to do it all, because what if I choose the wrong one? My hobby is hobbies. But I want one to be mine. Or at least three. Maybe four. My hard limit is at nine, honestly.
And somehow this all links back to writing. What if. I mean really, what if? What if while I’m busy training dogs (or not so busy, thank you economy), and knitting my fingers off to pay the bills, supporting my writer friends, promoting them, blogging about nothing, chasing kids, trying to make a garden/homestead on a rock bed, pretending I know how to sing for the fake band… What if, deep in my computer’s files, laying in wait, is the next big thing. And in my interview with Ellen (because Oprah erks me to no end) she asks how long it took me to write this book, that instantly sold out, and the movie rights were bought before it was even published… I have to say, twenty years. And I have to admit that for 19 of those years it was sitting there in my computer’s memory, because I was too friggen scared/hard on myself to even try. And she’s going to laugh and call me cute, while holding up one of my washcloths and make some cute joke about loving Jesus and drinking beer.
Okay so I doubt that’s how anything would unfold. But what if?
But where’s the time? And where the frick, is the confidence? Because all I know is that them washcloths will not make themselves. And sitting here, typing about what if’s does not pay the bills.
*pours more coffee*