I aspired for many years to be a writer, and yet I find myself not writing. What's up with that? I am also a sewer who does not sew. What does that mean? Am I a living person who does not live? What are my fears? What prevents me from living the life I could and should live? I have this theory that if I cleared out my house of all my things, I could think clearly and would suddenly be this clear-thinking and creative individual. My other person inside of me says that nothing would change and I would still not do anything but buy up more stuff to fill up my house again and then complain about not doing anything. The only psychotherapy I have had in my life is The Do It Yourself Psychotherapy Book. I think it helped me at the time. The only thing I really remember from it is to tell your secrets to someone and then it can do no harm to you. Then you will not do stuff that you would be embarrassed to have someone know about you. I don't think this would apply to not living. Would it?

I just realized something. I am writing. It feels good. However, I am so distracted, being in my sewing room/office with so much junk around. I guess I should go to a horse-supply and buy blinders. Maybe I should get glasses that only have little pinholes that would only allow a view of the computer screen. Maybe I should just stop going on about it. I think I am too caffeinated to really do anything more than flit from subject to subject. I had one big Dr. Pepper this morning and then another one at lunch. Then I had half of a big Cadbury bar. I am enjoying listening to XM online - Classical Christmas music. I think the music is helping me to feel relaxed and to focus with no blinders. I have this nagging thought, though, that I need to close and put the sheets on the bed. I took them off this morning to take to the laundromat with all the other laundry and was so tired afterward (and lazy) that I didn't put on new sheets. It's about a quarter to nine and the man of the house is going to want to get to bed soon. Skedaddle!