I'm only on day six. I've been religiously writing my morning pages. Except on Saturday, when I slept late, and didn't shower until after 5:00 p.m., then I forgot until early evening. But I still did them.
I don't know if I went out on an official artist's date, since I often do whatever I want alone. Every day I take a walk. The dog is with me, but he's not intrusive company. Does that count? I have glitter and stars and notebooks, and piles of other unfinished craft projects. I had to forbid myself from going to A.C. Moore's until I finished some of the projects I had already purchased. Do I go back on that now? Or do I pick up one of my unfinished projects and make time for it.
Time seems to be where I lose out. I never seem to have enough time. This is due, in part, to my tremendous sleep requirements. I'm not one of these people who can get by on 5 or 6 hours a night. I need 8 hours and sometimes more. I love sleep. And I dream
Boy, do I dream. I have the greatest dreams too. I almost always remember them. From January through April I was writing my dreams in a dream log. But that was taking up so much time. Now I am incorporating my dreams into my morning pages.
I've been in therapy at different times over the last 20 years. I had some difficult times in my young adulthood. So I've hashed over my life many times, and I feel pretty good about it. I was always a smart kid and a good student, and I gotta tell you I don't remember much criticism about that.
Oh, I was lazy. I was chubby. I got lots of criticism about those things. I read books and wrote poetry, and nobody discouraged me. I don't remember ever having a really good teacher who encouraged me either. There was a Mr. Jackson in high school who asked for one of my papers for his file on good papers to tell other students about. And I never gave it to him. I had a great women's lit professor in college, but I never even went to talk to her after class, not once.
When I write: "I, Judi Valori, am a brilliant and prolific writer." I don't get a lot of blurts. I've written it over and over. What I keep thinking is, "Why didn't I tell anyone that's what I wanted to be? Why didn't I pursue it?" I'm a roll alonger, a fool arounder, a master procrastinator. I'm my own worst enemy., my own worst critic.
My mother was always encouraging and supportive. My father was critical of everything I did but school work. Everyone in my family always knew and accepted that I would go to college. But I never knew what I wanted to be.
So, I guess, what I'm saying here is that I didn't have a lot of letters to write, or a lot of monster stories to tell. I was a brainy brunette and not a dumb blonde having fun--that was my grade school and high school insecurity.
I've been working at this and I have learned some things. But I really can't find anyone to blame.
