I woke up this morning with that voice in my head. If you’re a writer, you probably know the one. The one that says, “I’m not good enough.” The one that says, “You’ve wasted your whole life and what have you written?” The one that says, “This is supposed to be the Year of the Books. When are you going to write a book?” (Okay, well maybe you haven’t heard that last one exactly, but probably something similar).
I know part of the reason that I feel this way is because I got another rejection last night. But, more than that, I think I feel this way because it’s the middle of the second month of the new year, I feel like all I’ve done is freelance work, I already have more freelance work than I can possibly handle for the next two days (and next two weeks), I have taxes to finish up, plus I leave Wed. for a big conference and by the time I get back, February will be nearly over. I’m clocking in 10 hours a day, my wrists are bothering me from the keyboard, I can’t remember the last time I got naked other than to shower. Sleep? Ha.
I know I’ll get back to the writing that feeds my body and moves my soul. I always do. It just feels like this year has somehow step-sided, pushed me out of the reality that I wanted and into a somewhere else. It’s not a bad world, this new place I’m in. I’m not sad or depressed, except about not writing. There are freelance projects that I’m loving, that are interesting and new and that pay well. There are great relationships forming. There is money in the bank for future. I’m getting something–small–done on these books, despite the serious lack of time.
And yet, and yet…the heart wants what the heart wants. And mine wants these books, badly. It wants days to put words together in a way that is not constrained or shaped by any voice by my own. It wants to move forward on the goals that I set with such intention nearly two months ago.
I wish I had a clever and positive way to sum up this post, something about how determined I am, or how I’m sure that in just one more week (!) I’m going to find time for these babies. But I’m not feeling that. I’m feeling that quicksand of life and time pulling me downward at the moment. I just have to keep breathing, keep grabbing onto the things that feel strong enough to hold me up for a while longer… eventually, I will pull myself out. See the light. Find my body again. Discover my creative self under all that muck. Write the books.