I feel like such a total waste of oxygen right now.
I didn't send in the permission forms for the kids school field trip by the deadline, and now I'll be charged the money, but won't a part of the field trip.
It isn't such a big deal, except that I do this kind of thing all the time.
I know I'm not good at being secretarial stuff. At being organized and on schedule. I keep working at it, and usually I manage to forgive myself for being imperfect. But it helps when there is some sort of consolation to offer myself.
So I say, “well I'm not good at that, but look at what I can do.”
I can write books. I can sing. I can play an instrument. Everyone tells me how talanted I am. And yet…
…Every once in I while I can't seem to help asking myself if writing books no one wants to buy is really an accomplishment? If my artwork really counts as an accomplishment when it will never actually be used for anything, except to decorate websites hardly anyone sees. Websites about the books that no one seems interested in buying. I get an offer of a concert, and have trouble finding time/energy to practice… I don't want to be a professional musician, I want to be a pro writer.
Everyone once in a while I actually do something that's provably worthwhile. That's useful. I fixed my quilt once. I'm in the middle of fixing it again. I've made afgans– sometimes (rarely) I make actual clothing rather than costumes. But compared to the total time spent creating to date, the creations that have actually served some useful purpose seem pitifully few. What can I do? I can't spend more time on these things, my household is already far too much of as disaster area as it is.
So instead, I can't help asking myself if I and my family and the world in general wouldn't be better off if I didn't try make a writing quota. If I did housework instead. Would that make me happier, or would I end up being even more miserable?