I work from home. I am home, inside, alone, a lot. I start to feel that I am home because a. I have no friends. b. I am boring. c. I am insecure and can't / don't want to venture out. That I am working is never on the list. I tried renting a studio. I went to work. I worked. I came home and read or gardened and was happy to be back. But creativity comes at odd times and can not be reduced to a 9-5 slot. Often I would be in the studio and not have anything to do then get home and feel inspired. I spent countless nights reading when I could have and wanted to be sewing. I missed deadlines and that collection is my least favorite. So here I am, in my pajamas with my coffee, looking at a top I worked on until midnight and threw down in disgust. It is crumpled just beyond the computer. I am crumpled in front of the computer.

I resent the days I don't have right. Right is a delicate mix of socializing, exercise, adventure, love, productivity, alone time, and rest.

I keep reminding myself that this day counts too.

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