Asking all these questions

It's been a long ass time.

Hello, there, we meet again.

I've been in my head for the longest of times, I felt I was losing it.
As some of you may have noticed, or at least those who read, I posted what was supposed to be the beginning of this awesome story called Stockholm Syndrome. The plan was to make it up as I go, as a challenge to myself as to whether or not I could finish something on time.

Giving myself a deadline.

As it turns out, I suck at that shit.
Big fucking time.

I've only written about eight pages of that story.
And I got another one in the works, but that one seems to be going a heck of a lot more smoother than Stockholm.

Which raised the question, how bad do I want it?
How much of a writer do I really want to be?

My actions aren't justifying. Or satisfactory.
Am I just here?

It really sucks.
But Rome wasn't built in a day.
So, there's still hope, I think.

And then I asked myself, is writing what I really see myself doing for the rest of my life?
Yea, I do, but it's not hard to imagine myself doing other things, too.

But the end goal for me, at least, is to have an euphoria inducing garden, where I can sit with a mini-laptop and write for hours.
Green tea, or wine, by my side as my dog runs after butterflies.
Watching my cats climb trees.
As my husband brings a steak to me.

That's the dream, right there.
So, am I working as hard as I should be?
Or am I supposed to feel burned out?

I feel like I should definitely be doing WAY more.
Am I just missing that fire under my ass?
Or am I just being impatient?

But, if I'm asking it, then it must be so, right??

So many damn questions, ya'll.

Have a good night.