H and JP couldn't make it to the party last week so they came round for supper and we sank a lot of wine. H is one of my oldest and dearest friends. We were BFs for years and at one point lived together. In fact at one point we lived together with our two French boyfriends. No, don't ask. Yes, it was a total soap opera.
Anyway, now we hardly see each other as our lives run on different tracks. But she is one of the most life-enhancing people on this planet. JP's a star too.
So this morning I'm hungover and inexplicably restless and frustrated. Nothing to do with last night. (Well, the restlessness anyway. The hungover bit's DEFINITELY to do with last night.) But this writing thing just takes too long. The writing itself takes time, but the marketing it, the marketing ME, the convincing everyone that I'm worth it is draining. I'm so bored of being nearly there. Every morning I wake up and I'm thrown into a state of waiting. I'm always waiting for that big break. Hell, I'm waiting for that little break. And I'm too old to be waiting.
I can't see a day when things are going to be otherwise. I don't think I'll ever be the kind of person who's satisfied. I'll always be striving and waiting. Most of the time I think that's positive. On days like today it depresses the hell out of me.
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