Wednesday, June 6, 2018

It's Time to Retire This Blog

Hello all. I had a sudden urge to retire this blog in the last 24 hours. And since that's how my life usually goes, where I get sudden urges or sudden inspirations, I'm going to go ahead and do it.

I think I'm ready to write other things. I'm ready to stop channeling my energy here instead of into actual projects. I'm ready to stop spinning in circles and instead roll down the street and into the sunset. I'm ready to stop procrastinating.

This has been a good place for me to vent for six years. I don't know where I'm going next or what I'm doing, but I know that I'm ready for something different.

Life is very uncertain for me at the moment. I feel like I'm in a black box and can't find a way out, and I'm just running from wall to wall, top to bottom. But that's ok. I'm going to embrace it I guess.

Make something good out of what seems like a lot of bad.

I'll see you all in my next adventure.

Monday, May 28, 2018

Lessons From Audrey Hepburn

I just finished a biography of Audrey Hepburn and overall it was a delight. I've never been a huge fan of hers but I stumbled across an old interview on YouTube recently.

She was near the end of her life and had granted Barbara Walters a rare conversation on camera, and something about her presence and her answers felt familiar. It was like we were the same person in some way or had lived something of the same life. I knew her. Or I knew how she felt. If she hadn't died in 1993 I might have thought maybe I was her if I'd existed here before.

So I ordered the book.

It turns out she was, in fact, just like me. She was a multifaceted human being with a range of emotions who loved animals, was rather easily bruised, and dreamed of having a garden. And also like me, her life was a constant grasping at happiness amidst a deluge of misfortunes, heartaches and childhood scars. I don't think she ever quite got there and I'm not sure I ever will either.

I was struck by something she was quoted as saying toward the end of the book. And this was that even at her age (60 years old), she still suffered from an extraordinary case of stage fright anytime she had to perform or make a speech. She also said that she was not alone in this nervousness and that every real artist she'd worked with seemed to have his or her own version of it.

Gary Cooper's hands used to sweat while he acted. Cary Grant worried himself sick over his performances.

It made me feel like my recurring feelings of disgust about my work, my non-linear overall progress, and my almost constant feelings of inadequacy aren't so abnormal after all. Maybe nerves are universal. Maybe they're just part of the deal if you want to be artistic in some way.

Last week I picked up my book manuscript and tried to continue writing. When I couldn't do that because it seemed like I didn't have anything else to say, I started editing it instead. Maybe, I thought, I'd simply reached the end.

I was plunking along and then quit in frustration. I wrote my last blog, then I think I cried a little bit, and then I pulled up my pants and started working on it again.

I'm only 28 pages into my editing and I've got a long way to go. I know that I will fight many negative feelings as I go through this process, and I know that I will probably want to give up on it again. In fact, I can almost predict that I'll throw my hands up in disgust and put it away for another few months before gathering enough courage to come back to it. This seems to be my pattern.

But the knowledge that what I'm feeling isn't unique or odd is nice. The knowledge that others have felt the way I feel and have still gone on to success is enormously helpful.

Thanks, Audrey, for the lesson.

Wednesday, May 23, 2018

I Tried To Write Something

I tried to write something after another long break and I failed miserably. I wrote about two pages and closed the document.

I'm frustrated. I'm deflated. I'm not feeling well.

What am I ever going to be?

I say that I want to be a writer but I just can't seem to be one. I say that I'm good at what I do and then I pull out my keyboard and tap out nonsense. I say that I can finish my book but then I read my essays and close my eyes in disdain.

Being a writer is a really hard thing to be. I mean, maybe it's not hard for everyone but it is hard for a large percentage. I suppose I know how to write the things I'm good at - the things I've practiced for over 14 years in the business world. But personal things? Things that matter to me?

I suck.

I'm sitting here at my keyboard because I'm at a loss as to what to do with myself and with my time. I've got a myriad of health problems that are dragging me down constantly and I've given up hope on the job I thought was mine for the having.

I don't want to say I'm a failure because I'm not, really. But sometimes I don't know what to call the feelings I have inside.

I long to do something more, something "better." And yet I just don't have the talent and I know it. So what comes next for me? What do I do besides sit here, a ball of disease and frustration, wondering which door is finally going to open?

I tried to write something and I failed. But I did write this.

Wednesday, May 2, 2018

Jitters

I have the jitters right now. I'm jittery because I'm waiting to do a phone interview with a hiring manager on Friday, for a position that would not only pay me well but that would allow me to be what I am - a writer.

The best thing about it is that they want someone who just wants to write all day long. Someone who is talented at this one thing above all else, but probably also someone who understands technology because it's an IT company.

That's me. That's me all over the place.

I'm hesitant to get too excited about things but I also don't have much else to grasp onto right now. So I'm tossing at night, I'm pacing during the day, I'm checking email and LinkedIn obsessively, I'm networking to try to find another way "in." It feels like when I used to get sucked into a social media vortex and to be honest I don't like it. And yet I'm not sure what to do about it.

At 2:00 a.m. last night I told my brain to shut up. To stop thinking. To stop mulling and scheming and worrying and hoping. Because none of that was going to make any difference and especially not in the middle of the night.

At 9:30 a.m. I was pacing, because I still hadn't heard back on whether or not I was going to get the interview. And I was a few minutes late to PT because I couldn't stop the magnetism of my computer screen.

At 3:00 p.m. I crashed out a bit, landing on the sofa but with my phone in hand, swiping and refreshing and reloading. Just in case.

As I've been obsessively trying to figure out how to make this job happen, it's felt like I'm on speed. I can't relax. I can't stop. And it's doing me no good to be this way.

I did do my meditation practice this morning and that's the most calm I've probably been all day long. But I can't live like this because if I get another rejection after spending days or weeks in this state, it's going to hit me harder than I can handle.

So yes, I'm jittery because I might get to be a paid writer after all. Not necessarily on my terms or doing anything romantic or noble, but at the same time, doing the thing that I do without having to backtrack into documentation. And isn't that romantic and noble in a way? To be able to use your skills in the world somehow, even if it seems insignificant? It means I'll be doing my part. I'll be putting into use my gifts.

It also means that I can do other things like hope for a house again. Buy some shirts without holes in them. Get a new comforter for the bed. Resume saving for retirement.

And all of this is really important, too.

I think I'll go soak in the bath and resume reading my Everyday Zen book to see if I can calm myself down for the next 36 hours. Practicing non-attachment is helpful, but it's not as easy as it sounds.

Saturday, April 28, 2018

The Wallowing Piece

Sometimes writing feels like such an awful chore. It's hard, it's taxing, it's time consuming. To sit down and try to produce something takes more effort than I have to offer sometimes. And I'm also back in my mindset of not wanting to write anything at all, which is rather disconcerting because that mindset leaves me with no options.

I've been failing so much and for so long. A quick glance at the number of years I've had this blog up and running helps everyone chart the course of my failures in my personal work. But now that I'm failing professionally, too, I find myself wanting to retreat into a hole.

Am I even a writer at all? Do I even want to be? Maybe I'm just a failure and I should bide my time until I shrivel up and die.

This all sounds very dramatic I know. But I'm extraordinarily depressed these days between my illness and my career struggles, my lack of family and my lack of direction. I've never known what I wanted to do with my life and I find myself in that same place, wondering what a feasible option is for me to make a living as I move forward into my new existence.

And I can't come up with anything. I did tests, I read articles. I've done this for years and I just can't come up with anything.

I come up with things that I like to do but nothing that I want to do all of the time. Or that I feel like I can do and make a decent living at. Writing has always been one of the few options available to me that I could transform into money. But these days, with the proliferation of wannabe writers, cheap labor, etc...well I just can't seem to make it anymore. Not when Uncle Sam requires me to pay a tax rate that is now double that of a corporation, but then said corporation won't pay me enough to be able to survive. Let's not forget said corporation won't offer me any benefits, either.

The life of a freelance writer really can suck. I think I realized it early on, and that's why I took a long-term role with a company that had me doing things that I didn't want to do: I just couldn't make a living as a writer. I couldn't. I tried, and I couldn't.

So what made me think that I could again? And now, what makes me think that I even want to?

Some people have a calling and a drive to do something and maybe it's been there their entire lives, or maybe it hasn't. I have nothing. Nada. Zilch. This goes back a long way and maybe it has to do with a total lack of confidence in myself and my abilities. Maybe.

Or maybe life is just a wad of stress for me and that's how it's going to be.

I wrote this piece and I wrote something yesterday, but I wrote them out of anger and frustration and depression. I was and I am wallowing. I can sure write when I want to wallow, but who wants to read that?

Friday, April 27, 2018

The Rejected Writer

Almost two months ago I made some goals for myself and I've spent the last eight weeks or so hustling like crazy. Networking, applying, praying, searching. And the net result of all of these things is that I'm kind of a reject. I've been getting a lot of "No" and a lot of silence after having some momentary interest that breathed life into my flailing ego.

I think that after almost 10 straight months of rejections I'm about at the end of my ability to absorb them. I'm also worrying about things like money, purpose, lost time, and what the heck to do with my days going forward. How do I work around this illness of mine? What can I do besides communications? Anything?

I know that I'm a good writer but I'm starting to feel like there is no place for me to work as one anymore. The market is too congested, labor is too cheap, the value of the written word seems to have declined. I wonder if I'll need to keep my writing to my private time, in the moments when I feel inspired, and try to find somewhere else to devote my energy to during the day.

I have no idea what that might be and I also know that I'll probably fall back into looking for jobs in a few days. But for now, I'm exhausted and dejected and lost. I'm like a balloon with a slow leak, except now I'm all the way down to a wrinkled mass of rubber.

I have a deep fear of being trapped, and office jobs make me feel trapped. I think it comes from my controlling childhood and all of the turmoil of my twenties. I vacillate between staying the course or changing entirely, always wondering if I've somehow missed the mark on the thing I'm supposed to be doing with my life.

Because isn't life supposed to work out a little better if you're doing the think you're supposed to be doing?

I don't know. Maybe and maybe not.

I'm to the point where I'm not sure if I'm supposed to press on through the failure or throw up my hands and walk away. I got to this place once with yoga teaching, and I eventually stomped off into the setting sun. Am I there again now? With the one real skill I feel that I have?

Am I all washed up?

Thursday, March 1, 2018

New Goals

My life is evolving day to day, week to week, month to month. I never know how I'm going to feel or what I can expect when I wake up in the morning, so I continuously evolve in my approach to life based on what I encounter on any given day.

I've been off work for a few weeks and except for a glorious day or two, I've spent most of it not feeling well and also fretting about finding meaningful work. I've wanted so badly to work on my book during this time but I've honestly had no physical or mental energy to carry it out. After going from doctor to doctor, and medical test to medical test, and applying for this job and that job, I just haven't had anything left to give. Not to a book. Not to this blog. Not to anything, really.

But being confined to the couch has given me some good time to think (not that I need more of that, although I guess I do if that's what's been given to me at this time in my life). I've sent pleading cries of desperation into the sky. I've stared at the wall in frustration. I've tried to figure out what actually makes my life meaningful on a day to day basis and what doesn't. Frankly it's been a long few weeks.

But I've started making some new goals for myself so that I can have something long-term to strive for:

  1. I still want to finish my book and someday write a few others. This is a deep goal that I will not let go of, but as I have always suspected, I can only write when the other parts of my life are more in alignment. That means when I have a better medication regimen, when I've got a new "normal" that at the very least isn't interrupted constantly by doctor visits and testing, and when I've got something meaningful to do to earn money and feel like I'm contributing to my marriage.
  2. I think I want to go into medical writing, which is not surprising considering how much I've gravitated toward healthcare companies over the last decade AND how much free time I spend reading medical publications now. I'm not sure how to make it happen yet but I've started turning it around in my brain as a the first step. I've also reached out to a couple of people and started doing some research, and I'm thinking I can worm my way in if I just am patient and work strategically.

While all that's been going on, I've had one job interview, which was nice after a big sea of "No" for the past nine months. It seemed to go pretty well and has left me hopeful. And although it wouldn't be my passion, it would be something to do that would make me feel useful, pay bills, and allow me to keep the doors of my writing business open until I got things figured out.

My other goals now are to just be content in my days as best I can. Maybe I can't walk outside sometimes, or go places, or eat, or socialize. Maybe I don't feel the way I used to feel and I often can't do the things that make me happiest. But I can still do some things, like read, and watch my favorite movies, and care for my rescue cats, and give my husband a hug. These are not big things but they are something, and I'm striving to be more grateful as best I can.

I don't have a nice way to wrap this up today so I'll just leave it there (I'm sure I could come up with something but my body is saying enough is enough). Until next time...

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

The Writing Life

I'm currently into my second week of what I call "The Writing Life." Although technically I suppose it's my first week since I spent three days of last week on vacation.

The writing life looks like something I always wished I'd had. I get up in the morning (sometimes very slowly depending on how I'm feeling that day) and I make my breakfast. I clean the kitchen, take care of my morning chores, and maybe watch thirty minutes of television while I finish eating or as a transition into my day.

Then I pull out my computer and I write something. Today, I finished the final edits on an essay about motherhood that I'd worked on last week. Before that, it was writing essays for my book manuscript that is almost coming to a close.

Once I've done my writing work I rest a bit, or do some chores, or run some errands, or poke around on social media in my support group, or check the news. In the afternoon I write some more if I'm feeling ok, or I rest if I'm not. Maybe I watch a little more television or maybe I don't. Maybe I run some more errands or maybe I don't. And then I start getting ready to cook dinner.

I love my current life because I get to work on the stuff I want to work on (instead of stuff I hate doing every day), I have very low daily stress (except when I worry about how/when I'll find another job), and I get to rest as much as is required (without having to check my emails constantly to make sure nobody is looking for me). It's a life I could get used to and relax into forever but, unfortunately, that I can't stay in for too long. I don't want to be a total shit of a wife and put that type of burden on my husband.

But I do hope to create this life again for myself someday, and I think the only way I could get there is to write something that is successful and that gets people to notice me. And this requires putting my work out there and getting things done. So the focus of my time during this medical sabbatical, when I'm not resting and otherwise trying to survive, is on getting things written and ready for publication. Every single day.

I don't pretend that the path I dream of following is easy, because it isn't and most people don't achieve it at all. But what I do know is that it feels good and it makes me happy, and it sits perfectly with my soul. I was reading an article in a magazine last night about how we should really pay attention to the things we do. Does it feel good? Does it give us peace? Does it create happiness? If so do it because it's your life purpose.

Ok, I'm doing it. But I'm leaving it up to whomever is in charge of this universe to get me to where I'm supposed to go. My job is to write and to get things done. I have to strive, I have to try, I have to put my whole heart into it because none of this is going to happen with crossed fingers and silent prayers.

Monday, February 5, 2018

Concentration

For the first time ever in the history of Monday mornings, I got to wake up with one task in front of me: to work on my book manuscript. I didn't need to worry about money, about food, about shelter, about my job. In fact, I didn't need to worry at all. I needed to instead focus on doing only that which nourishes my spirit.

And wow is it a great feeling.

I've talked about how I was about to step into a new chapter in my life, which has been coming since I made the decision to end the old one in late November. Well, today was page one in this chapter. A big blank page that I filled up completely and even spilled over into adjacent pages, as I poured my energy out and into my work.

Today I've written, not including this blog, 3500 words (about 13 pages) for my manuscript. Some of it is probably good and some if it probably awful, but I believe this is the most writing I've ever done in one sitting - and probably because I had the time and mental energy available to give.

I've always felt that I had a lot to say but that it was stuck behind a cement wall. I've written before about how I felt it cracking, little slivers of light poking through and a cool breeze tickling my cheek. But I think it's cracking open even further on the heels of a really rough few years. And it's so big now that I can see the sun.

I wonder when this wall will crumble away completely so that I can fully step into the light?

I've given myself four to six weeks of concentration (on my personal work) and rest (for my body and spirit). With 262 pages now under my belt, I'm feeling rather confident that I'm about to have a book ready. One that is finally me and that perhaps I'll be able to start shopping around by summertime.

We'll see, though. Let's not get too far ahead of myself.

For now I am glad to have had a rather productive day and I'm going to leave it on a high note. I don't know what I'm going to do next since it's only 3:00 in the afternoon, but I think perhaps reading is a good idea. Or maybe I'll poke into my local Target and pick up a couple of things we need. Or maybe I'll stare out the window at the clusters of naked branches that make up the trees that are rooted along the sidewalk.

The nice thing is, no matter what I decide to do, I feel free.

Sunday, January 28, 2018

Permission to Be

I read two rather interesting things today. The first was from Natalie Goldberg's book Writing Down the Bones, where she assured me that it's ok to take breaks from writing. To take a day or a week or even a year off without feeling like you have no right to call yourself an artist anymore. This really resonated with me after my year-long writing break that I only recently ended in the fall. It meant that I'm still a writer even though I didn't write a single word for such a long time.

The other interesting piece I read was an article about a writer who decided to follow the habits of several famous writers, because he felt like his own habits were not measuring up. It was called "I Copied the Routines of Famous Writers and It Sucked." In the end none those routines worked for him, although there were pieces and parts that he carried forward and would incorporate into his life.

I think I'm learning to do the same.

There are so many rules about how you should write, when you should write, under what conditions you should write, and how much time you should spend doing all of these things. I've spent an inordinate amount of time beating myself up for never meeting any of these directives.

  • I don't write every single day without fail, although I go through periods in my life where I do. 
  • I don't write a certain amount of words or for a certain amount of time, although occasionally I make a note of how many words I can churn out in an "average" writing session. 
  • I like to take breaks from writing entirely on a pretty regular basis, usually to read or to bake some cookies or to otherwise engage with other humans.

It was nice to get permission, today, to just be who I am. To write in the spurts that make up my personality and that allow me to create the things that do come out. Because trying to put myself into a box and conform to a list of accepted rules for writers...sucks. It makes me miserable. It makes me ineffective. It makes me quit.

I have made some changes recently that have gone along with the new understanding I've described above. One of those is deciding to use a large blank notebook I got for Christmas to free write whenever I like. It's perfect for the days I don't want to work on my manuscript and when I also don't want to post something here. Both of those activities require proofing and polishing so that what I create can be shown to the world. And sometimes I don't want to do that.

In fact, sometimes I just want to write for the sake of writing without having to show it to anyone when I'm done. And for whatever reason I want to have a separate space to do this that isn't in my journal, where I document my life and my feelings, and that isn't in my little black notebook, where I write down all of my ideas or sometimes work on poetry.

When I think of someone like Ernest Hemingway (I love his work) I picture a man surrounded by notes and books, with words and scenes jotted all over the place in a disheveled mess. And I have no idea if this is anything close to his reality, but I like the idea for me...just in a more organized way.

I like the idea of having different places for different things. I give myself a lot of reasons for not writing, such as:

  1. I don't feel like thinking that hard (manuscript)
  2. I don't feel like publishing anything (blog)
  3. I don't feel like editing or rereading or reworking (both of the above)
  4. I don't feel like vomiting unproductively into a journal right now
  5. I don't feel like writing for very long, maybe just a minute or two
  6. I don't feel like trying to come up with something cohesive to say
  7. I don't feel like searching for a topic
  8. I don't feel like I have anything to offer at the moment
I think that if I give myself places where I can go ahead and write, when I want to, as a sort of "out" for the obstacles I just listed, I think I'll be able to get more done.

Giving myself "permission to be" feels really freeing and is making me write more. I'm learning that I have permission to write when I want to, I have permission to write crap, I have permission to write well, and I have permission to write without needing it to be anything earth shattering or record breaking. I don't have to write a bestseller.

Yesterday I wrote in my nice new notebook because I didn't want to have to drain my brain. I don't know if it's anything, but it felt good doing it. The night before I wrote in my journal, just to put pen to paper for a while and to update myself on my feelings about my life post-medical procedures. Tonight I'm at my computer, typing in this blog because I had the mental energy to do so, and because I felt like I wanted to.

Step by step I'm becoming more free of the constraints I used to subject myself to. I do recognize that it's easy to fall back into old habits if you let down your guard for a moment, but I truly feel like I'm at a turn in the road. It'll be interesting to see what unfolds next.

Monday, January 22, 2018

Letting Go

I've been fantastically unproductive lately. And I'm ok with that, because I'm moving to a new phase in my life and transitions, I think, can be inherently crazy (because of all the different gears turning) or unusually blank (because you've left something behind and haven't yet moved on to the next thing).

My transition is unusually blank, I guess. I haven't started my next life chapter and I'm wrapping up the one I was in, so I'm sitting idle in a sort of "senioritis" mindset where my body is at my desk but my brain is somewhere far away. I'm also waiting on some medical stuff this week and that's a whole lot of blank space too, where you're just passing the time as best you can and wondering what happens when those results are handed over.

Writing aside (I'll get to that in a minute), this blank space has been good thinking and emotional processing space, although really I've been doing this for the last year or two. I'm becoming better in tune with what serves me and what doesn't, what harms me and what nourishes me, what adds to my life and what takes from it. And with that knowledge is an ability to start making decisions about what I want and what I don't, and what maybe used to work for me but doesn't anymore.

I'm starting to let go of more and more things that don't serve me as I sit in this blank time in my life. Letting go of my job was the catalyst, and probably the biggest one yet. But sometimes you have to let go of people, too, if you find that those people are no longer a positive force in your existence. That one can be harder to do.

I'm also letting go of the need to know what is coming next in my life. It's uncomfortable and anxiety-provoking; I like to know what's down the road even if I don't like what I see. But I've found that relinquishing this need is fantastically freeing. It allows me to live in the present and appreciate my life as it is, to see the good parts even when things aren't going exactly the way that I want. I don't have to fret about what comes next.

This is not to say that I have lost my ability to hope or that I've decided the future is so grim I'd rather not think about it. Rather, I've lost my ability to worry needlessly about things that haven't happened yet. At least for this pause in my life.

So now we'll get to the writing part. As if in contradiction to everything I've just said above, I caught myself wondering the other day what the hell I was going to do when I finished the book I was working on. Would I ever have another good idea that I could follow through with? What would it be? Could I keep on and make something of this vocation?

And then (to reign things back in) I gave myself some harsh words about the futility of worrying about things that haven't happened yet. That writing is no different than the rest of my life. And I proceeded to give myself a strong argument that went like this: I wasn't worrying about the book I'm currently working on while I was writing other manuscripts that are now gathering dust. So what's the point? There is none. It's wasted energy. Let it go.

Resigning yourself to what is, and making decisions about only the things that are in front of you, can be enormously helpful. You realize you do have power to change your immediate world even if you can't change what comes next. You can distance yourself from things and people and jobs that cause you pain and, even if you don't know where you're going next, you can relish in the newfound peace that you have created by choosing to be in the now.

That's where I am today. I'm feeling more peaceful after a rough few weeks, at least for today and hopefully until I get through this week. Although...a three-minute voicemail from a good friend helped pull me out of my hole and back onto firm ground. As did the support of a number of people who have lifted me up when I can no longer do so myself.

I'm grateful for everything I'm learning on this journey and I hope it all makes it into my writing. Sooner rather than later.

Monday, January 15, 2018

Being Pushed the Right Direction

I've had a lot of time to contemplate my life as of late. I've spent it curled up in the fetal position either crying or trying to rest, depending on the moment. And since sometimes I struggle to do both of those things, it leaves a lot of time for mulling and analyzing to fill in the space.

I've now got about two weeks left of gainful employment before I depart into the great unknown. I've been trying since June to find a new gig and that hasn't happened. I've also been trying to make my current gig work for me, and that hasn't happened either. Eventually my body gave out and I had to raise a big red Stop sign and resign, which was simultaneously a relief (I was tired of what I was doing) and a major source of frustration (why can't I even work anymore?).

But I didn't hit a wall, despite outward appearances and logical perception. Instead I feel like I'm being pushed in the proper direction, simply because my own attempts to alter my life course have been futile thus far.

Not having a job and also not having the ability to do much else means that for the first time ever, I'm going to be focused solely on creative work. I don't even have the energy to freak out about finances anymore or to worry about the future, which is weird and concerning and somewhat liberating. It feels like a nice break from the crap of life.

I don't think I would have gotten where I am without a whole lot of nudging. Often times when we ask ourselves why certain things happen, it's easy to get lost in a field and not be able to discern anything except the immediate problem. But sometimes we gain perspective, like a camera flying above, and we can start to see that we aren't really lost at all. We're just learning how to make our way, with each hardship or struggle being one small nudge.

Or perhaps one large kick in the behind.

I don't have tons to say in this post and my head is starting to hurt, so I'll call it good for now. I think I got my point across. One day, I'm going to make something of all this. Perhaps 2018 is my year. But I'm taking it one step at a time, one day at a time, and I don't care about the future anymore. It's officially out of my control (as if it ever was in my control) and I'm ready to be pushed whichever way I'm meant to go.

Monday, January 8, 2018

Second Acts

So I'm about three weeks away from freedom (translation: a job is ending). And I'm finding that I'm exceptionally ready for this chapter to close and for the next one to open before me, fresh and white and clean.

I wanted to work on my book today. I've been in the groove. But instead I had to tend to issues with work, and then issues with trying to get medication, and then issues with medical research (because I'm obsessively needing to understand my diagnoses and how to access the care that I need).

And before I knew it my clock said 4:30, and I felt tired and needed to rest.

And then suddenly it was 5:15 and I needed to cook dinner, which resulted in more dirty dishes than my drying rack could hold.

And I got that all done and decided I needed to take a shower, because I was more tired still and all I wanted to do at that point was step into my purple pajamas and chase relaxation.

And then I put on said purple pajamas and walked into the living room, where my husband was zoned in on a football game, and I thought to myself, what do I actually feel like doing now? Do I want to read a book? Or do I want to do scratch this itch that I've had all day long?

And so, at 8:00pm, here I am.

I really like this blog because it lets me have small bursts of creativity and expression (and practice) without requiring me to really think very hard, which sometimes I just can't do after a long workday. I'm also starting to journal again, which serves the same purpose although in a more cathartic and personal manner. I used to journal so much in my twenties and even as an adolescent, and I've started to miss it lately. So I've been inspired to pick it back up, especially because it spurred a new idea for a book a few days ago.

So many ideas, so little execution sometimes.

I find that I work best either first thing in the morning when my rational brain hasn't overtaken my intuitive side, or late in the day when the moon has risen above the buildings outside my window and that same brain is too tired to get in my way. I know this about myself and so I've had a personal goal, for several years, of devoting one day per week to my manuscripts. One day when I can get up in the morning and know that I have nothing to do but focus on what I want to write.

And this day is coming in a few weeks, I think. The thought of it sort of lights a creative fire where ruins have been smoldering since probably early 2015.

I'm feeling good about 2018 from a personal creativity perspective. I'm determined, and I've set goals that I think I can meet, and I don't expect to be derailed again by two surgeries - although I know I may have bumps in the road and pauses in the flow as I still try to crawl my way back to health stability.

I'm 37 years old now so I'm less inclined to scold myself or to feel despair about not having done what I wish I could have gotten done by now. I'm just focused on doing as much as I can, when I can, and making a conscious effort to move forward toward my dreams.

Plenty of people have a second act in life and I think my second act is just going to be what my first act could have been. Although I suppose you can't have a conclusion without a beginning, so therefore I couldn't be where I am now without what I've already been through.

So maybe the second act was the actual plan all along. Yeah, I like that.

Wednesday, January 3, 2018

Applying Myself

I've been blue for a few days. Really I had sort of a blue year. But it's now 2018 and therefore resolutions abound. I am no different although I take myself less seriously in this area than probably most of society. I don't so much make resolutions as I make plans to take steps forward in my life.

One of the things that I've planned to do this year is to finish my latest book. The one that I'm actually going to publish. The one that's finally "me" incarnated in a manuscript after I don't know how many mess-ups and wrong turns over the span of a decade. And I'm pretty close, having just hit 200 pages yesterday and floating somewhere in the realm of 60,000 words.

But what I'm still finding holds me back on a regular basis is my aforementioned feelings of blueness, mostly due to my illnesses and not because of anything inherently bad about my life situation. I am blessed in so many ways, but I hurt in so many ways too. And when I'm not motivated to do much of anything for weeks at a time due to the sad feelings in my heart, I'm certainly not motivated to write.

I spent a lot of down time on my couch over the holidays because we ended up having to cancel a planned trip to visit friends in NYC for New Years. And my husband got sick and was asleep for a couple of solid days. And it was also an arctic tundra, so going outside made me spit curses at the wind.

And during this time of relative quiet, I went back to my age old problem of not believing that I can do the things I want to do. This falsified story that I've been telling myself since my childhood. And I spent a few days repeatedly telling myself that this is absolute rubbish and that the only one standing in my way is me.

So starting yesterday, I've begun to try harder to apply myself. I no longer have as much fear about writing but what I do still struggle with is motivation. And I don't know why, really, although I suspect it's still tied into fear just a little bit. But then I also think it's not front and center for me when my body is still broken. The truth of things is that I've had bigger problems to deal with and haven't felt like my lack of writing progress had room on the life stressor shelf.

But, like Elvis said, it's now or never. In a month I will be, for all intents and purposes, unemployed again. And while I'm freaking out about this a little bit, I'm also at peace because there are some copywriting opportunities that I think are still cooking. And also because I'll continue to get just enough commission from one of my writers to allow us to pay our bills. I was definitely blessed with that one.

So this is the perfect time, really, if there ever was one. The last time I was unemployed and had time to devote to this writing thing, I had no money in the bank. I lost my home. I was alone and, eventually, suicidal.

This time things are different.

This time I don't have to worry so hard about where my next meal will come from. It will come because I've got a husband with me now, who has a job with a steady income. It will come because I didn't squander the extra money I've made over the last year or so, and instead socked it away in an investment account to hold for a rainy day. It will come because my life is different now than it was before, and I'm in a better place now than I was at age 28.

All the reasons I gave myself for not being able to do my writing work are not as valid as they once were. So apply myself, I shall. It's a conscious effort, a daily kicking of myself in the ass. Sometimes it comes in the form of scolding, and shoving. In a metaphorical sort of way, of course. But hey...whatever works, right?