Nearly everyday, I start to write something and everyday I look at it again only see what trash it is.

I have such a longing to create something wonderful or beautiful or meaningful, but for right now a complete sentence would be a great start.

I have a great foundation - an expensive camera, a box full of art supplies, a plethora of notepads...but everything that comes out is just icky, and not what I mean at all.

And it's very strange. Because for most of my life I haven't been "allowed" to be creative. I was told that all that "artsy fartsy crap" is for flaky, unreliable people that aren't as smart as I am. It turns out (shocker) that I'm not flaky, unreliable or unintelligent and yet I exist as a creative type.

Happily, this allows me a connection to my mother-in-law. I will always be able to thank her for opening up a world to me where the world of pragmatism and creativity live happily together. I love music, I love to paint, writing is a lifeline and photography makes me happy. I also love filing systems, and having things in order, and I care if my bills are paid and if I make my appointments on time.

KAT - these two ways are not mutually exclusive!

So now I know this, I know I'm allowed to have these interests, but there's such a block.

Perhaps it's difficult to find the beauty to convey when you're living with your mom (again). Maybe I've just not subconciously accepted the fact that my biggest fish to fry is to get the hell out of here, and not to create. Maybe I've been here long enough that my sanity is once again hanging by a thread. Maybe I'm still trying to make my mom happy, and so I keep my interests tucked away.