I doodle between emails now, pondering work, my personal life, and finances. In the back of my mind I still turn over imagined complications. I’m still writing a story, while living my own, and a thousand times over I tell it to myself and I wonder… when am I going to share it with others? 

Will I ever manage to start and finish one of these little plots? There are a few worlds floating around my skull…

I won’t even say it’s procrastination, because I do work on these things… I just don’t let anyone see them. 

I can take criticism just fine, there comes a point when people see things in my work where I just slip their observations in my pocket for next time, so I know it isn’t that… 

Maybe because my little stories are there rattling around with my deepest, darkest, rawest thoughts that I’m afraid people will see too much of who I really am?

Either way, I doodle between emails and live a life that’s not mine now and again; when I’m silent, glancing out the window or chewing the end of a pen, I’m telling myself a story.