Lowered expectations 

Oh dear. It’s happening. 

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. 




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