Note: This was originally published on wacie.com on September 19, 2013.

I keep a pen-and-paper journal next to my bed. Journaling every single night was one of my New Year’s resolutions, and surprisingly, it’s one I’ve kept since the beginning of January. It’s probably the reason I don’t write more about myself here, because I get it all out every night. That, and I rarely have anything worth writing about, other than my nails. Even my journal entries aren’t much more than “I had to buy cat food today” or “I sure do hate cleaning the house”.

For whatever reason, I went upstairs and started reading the first journal of the year. It’s this adorable fabric-covered booklet with upcycled keyboard keys covering the front. My boyfriend gave it to me nearly two years ago, when I was stuck in the hospital after an unexpectedly complicated gallbladder surgery. I kept it around and didn’t start writing in it until January, because I was afraid of wasting it. I didn’t want to mar the pages with cooked lines, or having to tear them out and start over. I didn’t want it to be thrown away or cast aside out of neglect or disregard. It’s a unique little book, and I wanted to treat it with the respect it deserved. I opened to the first page, the first page of the year, and started reading. By January 1, I had already been living alone (read: without the boyfriend I lived with for seven years) since November, and I was not at all used to it. I was still struggling to find my place in the world and where I belonged. I was buying cheap wine and cat food with change. I did not have an ideal life. I want to say things have changed since then, but not a whole lot. Now I buy cheap wine and cat food in bulk online.

I notice that one thing has not changed at all. Let me show you.

January 8: “I’ve lost sight of what’s important. I don’t work hard enough at writing anymore.”
January 14: “I want to start writing again.”
January 22: “I started reading the book I wrote today!”
January 23: “I really fucking hate winter. Also, I finished reading the book I wrote and I hate it.”
January 25: “I want to write.”
January 30: “I’m too busy to write.”
February 8: “I miss writing.”

It goes on like this. Every other entry is about writing, but not actually that I did any writing, just about how much I miss it and how I feel like I’m terrible at it sometimes, how I never have time for it anymore. I’ve been saying the same crap since the beginning of the year! I haven’t written anything in months because I don’t have time. I haven’t written anything because I don’t think I can write anything good right now. I haven’t written anything because I’ve been preoccupied with life, or what I imagine is life, but is really just a vacation from what I want to be doing the most.

I’m totally right. I really have lost sight of what’s important.

I’ve been thinking about when I was writing full-time. Those were some awesome times. I started writing in the morning, right after I’d taken a shower and made tea. I stopped writing when I went to bed. I wrote when I didn’t especially want to write, or when I didn’t think what I was writing was any good. I wrote when I was cracked out on painkillers after my gallbladder surgery. I wrote until I got a repetitive motion injury from writing and had to take a week off. When I wasn’t writing, I was thinking about writing.

That’s not the case anymore. I spend all my time now listening to lectures, working on homework assignments, or reading books for something other than leisure. If I have a spare hour, I end spending it on housework or playing video games with friends. Writing just completely fell off my priority list. I hate it and I want to change it. I can never find the time.