The years are going by and I’m working out less, caring less, losing steam.
I’m not giving enough fucks.
What to do?
The picture above puts it perfectly — you reach a certain point (“midlife”?) and feel like you want to stop climbing. You just want to put your heavy bags down and camp out where you are. Screw the climb – there is TV to be watched and chocolate to be eaten.
Part of this pity party is the acknowledgement that I will probably never be able to make a living as a fiction writer.
There, I said it.
It’s not a realistic career path. I’ve always known this. But admitting that I’m going to live my whole life and not do what I love to do – makes me want to give up.
Gosh this year has just been one negative nelly moment after another. I think my job (“awesome” corporate gig in luxury hospitality!) depresses me by being so highly unfulfilling. Sorry if that’s bratty.