It is amazing how many times the roller-coaster can go up in down in the span of 72 hours. Kashi (Husband) is out-of-town for ten days, starting last week. So I have been alone for about a week now. I thought I would try to use that time to write. To figure out a balance between household chores, taking care of myself, and writing. I blocked off ten days for “seclusion” where the only things to occupy my mind would be writing, reading, and yoga. So Monday I sat in front of my computer to write.
It didn’t go so well.
I have about 4-5 projects to work on, including this block, and even though I tried to work on each I made no headway. In fact the only thing I accomplished Monday was writing myself into a premature midlife crises. Writing, like with anything creative, is a product of our inner landscape. It is like an expedition to the north pole, before we knew what was there. The ship sets sail, and I have no idea where it is going to go on any given day–hell any given hour. I feel what my characters feel, I experience what they experience, and sometimes they point like an arrow to the emotional pits that I have tried to bury and hide.
So Monday I felt like I didn’t know what I was doing. I was looking at my work and wanting it to be the work of the writer I will be in 20 years. But I am not that writer yet. I have a lot to learn, a lot of false starts to start, and I am frustrated that I am not further along in this venture. Monday felt hopeless. The only significant writing I got done was a rather depressing journal entry. Where I ask over and over again: WHAT THE F*** AM I DOING???? Because I worry about how I am spending my time, when Kashi is working to support us. Where my only contribution is doing laundry, and passive-aggressively leaving the dishes in the sink for Kashi to do because I hate doing them.
Because I don’t have anything to show for hours of writing, and I probably won’t have anything to show for a long time. It could be years before I get published, if at all, and in the meantime I am doing what?? Laundry.
I completely forgot that I like writing. I forgot that I LOVE words. LOVE THEM.
But that was Monday.
Tuesday I took a day off, because I couldn’t face anything. The thought of writing found me on the couch, working through a Harry Potter marathon and crocheting. And to tell the truth I felt better for it. It helped. I gave myself a break. I was kind and forgiving and today, Wednesday I am writing. I have gotten through a journal entry without feeling sorry for myself, I have put some time into the blog, and I am going to work on my novel next. And I feel good about it. I didn’t even have to coerce myself into getting back on the horse.
It helped not having Kashi around–it gave me some perspective. We both “work” from home, and since he gets a paycheck to show for all his hard work, I feel like I should have something to show too. But with him gone I feel more free to do what needs to be done, instead of doing those things that only make it look like I have been working. Does that make sense? I am reminded that writing is a different animal then the work he does. It has a different time line, a different emotional toll, and I need to work differently because of it. Sometime I need to take a day off and watch movies to give my mind a break. And it is okay.
Here is to the next three days and doing what I need to do, and not what I feel I should do. I have to say that how I felt Monday just makes me believe all the more that writers don’t need to drink or do drugs. Writing is enough of a cross to lug around. Maybe writers who drink, drink to cope with the fact that they are writers.
But there I go being all morose again.