Where does the time go? One minute I'm fretting about not having enough to do, the next I'm buried under a mountain of repertoire because I simply can't stop saying no to people. Someday I'll figure out this whole work/life balance thing, but today is not that day. Knowing me, that will be the day I shuffle off this mortal coil, probably tidying up as I shuffle because I can't resist a multitask.
Suddenly half a year has gone by. "You'll write more," you tell yourself, greeting every day with a promise that "Today will be the day I start on that story/essay/novel" and every day the same ending, a promise unfulfilled.
Is it a lack of inspiration? Motivation? Failure to launch, arrested development, insert-your-choice-of-pithy-cliche-that-has-been-coopted-by-a-romcom-and-or-sitcom? My mind always circles back to that line from "Waking Life", my favorite film when I was an insufferable pseudo-intellectual teenager: "Which is the most universal human characteristic--fear, or laziness?"