Self-loathing is at a rather reverberating all time high.

I was so on-point as a writer last month. Sunrise mornings where I did my routine, bashed out a blog post, then started to work on other writing projects.

Days full of writing and reading—the best ingredients in the pursuit of my writing career.

My housesit workspace in Tuscany…If I could just get back there…

Then I returned to the States.

In two weeks I’ve slept in seven different places (alone, thank you.)

I’ve seen a solid double-handful of friends that I usually don’t see in years. Spent time with family. Caught a wedding. Worked with my friend’s social media account at Rheos Gear…

But I haven’t written except for my daily post wake-up brain dump pages. 90% of the time, I haven’t even had my computer (gasp!)

Ugh.

The glaring problem with being a self-employed writer: I’m not working.

I try to tell myself that the explorations and relationships I’m strengthening are all fodder for future creative pursuits. Indirect “work.”

But I still feel like a piece of sh*t.

All successful writers and entrepreneurs say that the main thing is to persevere. I have absolutely dropped the ball.

But here I am. My brain is cloudy from being so un-grounded and over-socialized, but I’m writing this whiney post just so you know that I know I’m sucking.

Speaking of cloudy…how ‘bout that housesit? Just make me isolated again, writing gods!

It will have to go on, though, for I have a house to pack up. Since I have no income, I have to sublease it. Have to divide up the stuff I’m taking with me (to where??) and the stuff that stays behind (when will I be back??). The yard sale stuff, the donation stuff, the throw-aways.

I’m taking the steps toward being a writer, let’s hope I’m not lead off a cliff.

Keep me company! Leave a comment (and sign up for the email list).