Remember what I said about writing? About scratching the itch? As it turns out, actual scratching, and not thinking about scratching, makes the itch spread. Like really bad. I’m talking poison ivy, chicken pox, bedbugs, and other gross, graphic medical-related analogies.

I finally finished two concepts that I’ve been mulling over for years. The first was the poem I shared a few weeks back. The second was a short story I’m (persistently) shopping around (in abject terror). I thought finishing those would feel like a relief. It turns out, when I finish one concept, I suddenly think of five more. Which, you know, cool, I’m creative and have lots of ideas, I guess. But I’m having trouble focusing on just one or two. I want to jump back and forth among all of them and really, I kind of have to because I’m afraid I’ll forget my ideas. I find myself wishing I had more time to spend on them because I can only write when I have spare time. And I have a kid, so, “spare time” usually means “when normal adults sleep.” Because I also want to spend all the time with my kid. He is amazing. And I don’t get enough time with him because of the thing I do for 40 hours a week that gives me money. And THAT is another story to be told at another time.

I’m trying to figure out how to be organized about this. I know HOW to be organized, obviously, but it’s always been for other people’s projects and other people’s deadlines. I need to learn how to be organized and prioritize for myself for once. I’ll let you know if I figure it out. And I need to stop thinking about this because I’m actually getting physically itchy.