A long, pleasant conversation with Elisse yesterday brought to light, yet once again, a despondent inadequacy that quietly berates me as I slip into the busy rhythm of the summer, a rhythm defined by the joy and responsibility of work, relationships, and the general upkeep needs that play metronome to my life. Her and I share the frustrations that are concocted when two writers, both dependent on the painfully gained yet seductive edification of their muse, can't find time to write.

We're different, her and I, as is our writing; she understandably takes her work seriously and ferociously toils towards perfection, whereas I, though proud of my talent and the subsequent writing, find joy in the deluge I spill onto the pages on my screen, however incoherent or sloppy, and am a proud addict of raw expression. It is my therapy and the overseer that tames my madness; it slowly organizes a very hyperactive and overwhelmed mind. The final result is at times impressive, and at other times lazy in the most banal of ways, but calming and pleasing all the same. It is sad to look upon my blog and be met only by last month's dates, and even sadder when the lurking realization finally pounces: the thousands of moments that have touched me in the past two fortnights, whether comical or profound in nature, have slipped past me. Inspiration is there; it always is, as is the material and anecdotes that makes the writing process easier- especially when one spends fifty hours a week in the most extreme of all sociological studies: the service industry- yet the unpredictable amount of uninterrupted time is hard to come by. When I am not working, associating with associates, or maintaining the technical details of my life, I am exhausted. After work I creep to the couch, slathered in guilt, and wait to unwind as I sit through mindless programming, anxious to feel creative again and energized. I am always a bit annoyed to find that responsibility always presents itself the moment that energy comes jogging round the corner.

Writing is a hobby and an activity and must be scheduled as such. It is difficult in this world; bills must come before leisure, however necessary and productive the leisure might be, unless you want an angry landlord to come later. Only the master planner gets everything done, and a master planner I am not. A master planner, however, is what I will become. I must. I yearn too desperately for the familiar affection of the keys of my keyboard, as well as the satisfaction I am filled with every time I read the words I have written, be those witty, silly, stupid, misspelled, brilliant or naïve.