I always seem to write when I should be sleeping. I was doing some writing for my Non-Fiction class right before this. I have so many different things I want/need to work on. I'm really enjoying the writing, the only thing I'm not enjoying is that there are only 24 hours in each day.
The 24 hours usually breaks down to:
6-8 hours of sleep (including a nap).
4 hours of rehearsal.
2 hours of class.
2 hours of eating (scattered throughout the day).
2.5 hours of procrastination.
5.5 hours of productivity.
Now, let's keep in mind that productivity means the time I spend trying to write something, which encompasses lots of blank staring into space, or milling around on Google. NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH PROCRASTINATION. Also, the hours are just estimates, they vary depending on if it's a weekday or not. If it's a day during the weekend, the hours of sleep and procrastination change drastically.
I've been trying really hard to get stuff done. I just have so much writing.
Writing to-do List:
-The play for the theatre.
-Rewrite of my screenplay (thesis).
-Non-Fiction portfolio pieces (rewrites and new pieces).
-Paper on 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy for my American Lit. class.
The list is short but it holds so much writing. Honestly, I love it though...I seriously do just wish I had more hours to write. Creative writing is hard sometimes...Creativity is so fickle and it keeps me up til the wee hours of the morning. Yeah, Creativity is a flaky bitch. Haha, personification. Yeah, I'm tired.
Lately, I've been wondering about my future. I've been thinking about what I thought I'd be doing around this time, this year and what plans I had for myself about a month from now. And now, here it is. May 2009. I'm not sure of each, but so many things have changed. I've been spending ample hours trying to figure out what is best for me, what I want, what I want to do and how I want to go about all of it. During all of this thought, I've had the poem, 'Harlem' by Langston Hughes constantly reciting in my in head.
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
I recommend reading: 'The Dream Keeper and Other Poems' by Langston Hughes...some of the best poetry I've ever read.
Title Quote: 'Mother to Son' - Langston Hughes (Definitely feeling his poetry this morning)
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