If Only I Practiced
My girlfriend is going to be a fashion designer.
Hold on … I said that wrong. Do over.
My girlfriend is a fashion designer.
How do I know she is a fashion designer? Well gee, apart from the fact that she talks about fashion all the time, sighs every time we pass a shop with a badly-laid-out window, checks out scads of books on fashion from the library, comments on the clothes first with regard to everything she sees on TV, and—hell— the fact that she told me she was a fashion designer, the main reason I know it is that that’s what she actually does.
She shames me, really. Last night I asked her why she stayed up until two instead of going to sleep, and she admitted, in a surprisingly shamefaced manner, that she had been drawing.
So instead of sleeping or catching up on all the coursework she has been procrastinating on for her entire semester, she just couldn’t resist practicing her craft.
Isn’t that sick?
It was sad for me to have to admit to her that I will do almost anything but write. And I love writing. It makes me giddy, at least when it’s going well. When it’s going badly, I tear my hair out.
But I don’t seize every spare moment, and then some extra moments to do it.
I clean my house.
I pay bills.
I look up things on wikipedia.
Now, in some mitigation, this may be partly because I have a job that allows me to write at work, and I try to do most of my writing there.
On a brighter note, I did in fact work on my script last night, and I’m two scenes away from a whole plot. Maybe tonight I’ll finish, and then next week I can start the rewrite.
So my girl isn’t showing me up.