Words, Words, Words

I've been thinking lately about writing. Well really, I think about writing most of the time but I think about it in terms of 'making money from it and being able to pay bills.' I used to think in terms of 'this would be a good story, I should write this down.' It frustrates me that I think I have to consider it from one perspective or the other. Why can't I think about it from both simultaneously? 'This would be a good story, maybe there's a profit in there somewhere.'

This one blog I read, Volcanic Ensemble, the woman who writes it had a post a few months ago that I really connected with. She was celebrating x-number of years writing her blog and she said when she originally started the blog the tag (or possibly the name of the blog itself, unfortunately I don't recall exactly) was 'I promised myself I would today so here goes.' Or something similar. Let's consider that a paraphrase. I used to do that. Not tell myself I would write today, but I would literally write everyday. I had a book bag full of notebooks and pens and I would take it with me wherever I went. Instead of a purse with essential things in it, I carried a book bag with what I considered essential things. Sometimes, I would wake up at night and write something down, a poem or lyrics or a title, and go back to sleep. Something would come to me and I would write it down and go back to it later. That was such a good system. Now when I think of something I spend hours agonizing over it, trying to force the idea into existence. I thought of this great title for a sci-fi/fantasy novel over a year ago, and I came up with a name for a main character. Since then I've struggled through six variations of half of the first chapter. I haven't even finished one chapter.
This one's better: I've been working on a story since I was 13. I have never written an ending for it. The characters have changed drastically, the storyline has changed even more drastically, I've altered the

Stupid Writer's Block and Laundry Not Drying

I'm watching TV with mum and pretending to write while waiting for my laundry to be done. Everytime I have to do laundry I remember that we moved into the crappy apartment we're in because it had a washer and dryer hook-up. But then we never bought a washer and dryer, and so I still have to cart my laundry over to my parents once or twice a week if I want clean underwear. It's cheaper than going to a laundry mat.
I've been having really awesome writer's block lately (please mind the sarcasm) so it's been a pretty down time around the tiny apartment I call hell. I work short shifts a few days a week making chump change and they're early shifts. Jeremy works during the day, and the shift changes occassionally but his latest shift is only till ten at night. I generally work from five or six until ten or eleven. Even if he's on the first shift he still doesn't get home until 4:30-5. That leaves me five hours, roughly, of sitting at home and talking to myself because I have no friends and no life. It's also winter and ridiculous out, oh and fuel costs an arm and a leg (rough estimate) so I have nothing to do and nowhere to go.
Seems like a great time to write and be productive and finish at least one freaking story and see if some crap sci-fi mag is interested. Instead I re-watch Arrested Development (God knows it's not a waste of time, that show is amazing) and pretend to write.
I actually get out some source material, I grab some notebooks with half-finished sentences, etc. but to no avail. I just end up reciting the episodes practically verbatim and feeling very very very sad about my life.
Or writing a blog post.