Desires

I want to be a writer and a woodworker. Both for hobby and profit. For now, I have the tools to write and access to the tools to create with wood. Lacking the funds to acquire the wood with which to work, I find myself limited to a singular choice between the two. Even as far as that goes, I continuously find myself lacking the quiet time I need to accomplish much of anything on the literary frontier. It seems I can't easily find more than two minutes to sit down with my laptop without having to leave my bubble of peace to police the small people living in my house and eating my food and causing all sorts of noise. More often than not, when I do manage to find the quiet time I'm looking for, thanks to my inability to fall asleep at a decent hour, I manage to get a few words typed into my software before the little piece of peace I've been granted tugs at my eyelids and lulls me into a slouching, unwanted light slumber. Generally it will be the light sleeping in which my consciousness is present enough that my perception is easily influenced by sounds from my surrounding environment, but not granting me awareness enough to keep from being startled when my wife comes to check on my progress or yells at me from down the hall because I'm clearly dozed off, though there have been just as many times I've just been shutting my eyes against the world around me to try to gain a better focus on the moment. More than two years have passed since I started working on the story I want published more than anything and thanks to fairly long breaks (distractions due to video games), I haven't made nearly as much progress as I'd have liked to by this point. I should be finishing up the polishing touches on at least the second draft of it by now but regrettably, I'm still hammering away little by little. I need to find some kind of method to my mayhem and get my ass in gear. Grawrawr.