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.

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.

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.

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.

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?