Home Life.

I had a wonderful weekend and barely left my house. Many thanks are owed to Hubs for reminding me that sometimes it is okay to turn down all social invitations and focus on what is dearest and nearest - home life. 

Those two words: home life - have to come to have a definite meaning and purpose in my life in the past year and a half. I may have mentioned before that I am in love with the home that Nathan and I live in. The days or evenings I get to spend just "putzing" [is that still a word anyone uses??] never feel wasted to me. I enjoy decorating, cleaning, fixing, and living in this house.

What's the point in carrying a mortgage on a home we never spend time in or investing our love and thought in? No point at all I tell you

I love to be at home. 

One of many random thoughts as Sunday evening ends. Revisiting this blogging thing feels so good. 

-DB

Two days and five theatres later, and I have had one response.  It was to say they would keep my resume on file.  Best part: note in the email that he saw a play I SMed and it was "superb"!  Lovely accomplishment to have my work be memorable.

~DB

Hustlin'

I put in an eight hour day at the box office, and then decided it was time to stop dreaming and start hustling.  I have written emails and submitted resumes to four different theatres this evening, with three of them being new ones for me.  My last show in any production capacity was almost a year ago.  I'm good at what I do in my [two] current day jobs, but it's time to get out there.  It's time to face my fears of transportation, money [lack of], failure, and career and just do what I love, as much as I can, and see where it takes me.

~DB

Unauthored.

"Find your theme."

"Find your brand."

"Don't confuse your readers - pick a message and stick with it."

A quick Google or Pinterest search for blogging prompts offers these suggestions and I find them all discouraging. I miss writing for the sake of writing - when writing was a personal emotional release.

I hadn't thought about it for a long time, but over lunch last week I told a friend that I used to write short stories, poems, and essays constantly from early childhood through adolescence. She said, "aaw, do you want to pick it back up?"  And I felt sad inside as I said, "I'm not sure I would know how."

I don't know what to say - but I always feel like there is something to be said. How did I get so locked up inside?

Part of me wants to dive back into the digital pages of this familiar friend, my blog of [a sporadic] six-ish years, and part of me wants to start all over with a blank title and draft list.

I have unauthored, aching thoughts yet I have nothing of note to say.

~DB