I'm starting a new job on Sunday. I'm kind of disappointed in myself because I just can't work up the energy to do much. I went to see a movie today, just to get out of the house. Yesterday I played lots of video games, which, believe it or not, is actually progress. It's better than watching YouTube all day, anyway.
Still, I wish I was writing. I haven't properly written since I moved here. There's always an excuse. January through April, I couldn't write because I felt guilty for not having a job yet. April through June, I was grieving. July through August, my new job was taking too much energy out of me.
But I quit that job when I got hired for this new one, and I had a full week off in between. I wanted to write, but I'm too nervous about my new job. Once I start the new job, I'll still find reasons not to write.
The truth is, I was very lucky with my old job, the one I had before I moved. I was fortunate enough to have a job that had a lot of downtime. I wrote most of my books while at work. It's when my brain is most alert, and I have the right combination of chemicals floating around for productivity. Unfortunately my new job isn't going to give me any time for writing.
Maybe if I put aside specific writing hours on my days off, even going as far as to wear work clothes, I could get past my mental blocks and actually write something. I do have ideas. There's all sorts of stories floating around my brain, waiting to be written down.
I'm getting lonely. My D&D group isn't going to meet again for a while, because my new job will have me working most weekends. Maybe I'll make some friends at my new job, though I know I'll only be working with one person most of the time.
This house is too big and empty without KJ. I keep thinking about getting a roommate, and not just for the extra money. I'm on a message board for local LGBT+ people, and sometimes people post about needing a place to stay. Usually it's transgender young adults still living with their abusive parents. I'm always tempted to offer them a room.
But I doubt I ever will. First off, it feels skeevy somehow, as a 52-year-old, to offer a room to people in their 20s. I'd be doing it with the best of intentions, but I'm afraid someone would accuse me of being a sexual deviant. Secondly, I'm afraid of someone disappearing in the middle of the night with some of my stuff. But most of all, I just have a general fear of... whadoyoucallem... human beings.
I don't know. I love this house, but I'd love it more if I could share it.
