Sometimes, life just gets away from you. You know?
You get so caught up in your day-to-day, trying to be the reasonable adult you’ve been masquerading as all this time, that the things that really matter to you fall away.
This blog is one of those things.
Thanks to those of you who still check in. I see your views on my phone, and the simultaneous guilt and gratitude they elicit in me keeps me going.
You’ve all heard the excuses, the reasons before. School, work, life, blah blah blah. It’s all still here, and it’s all still true. And it’s all still irritating the shit out of me.
But, the light at the end of the tunnel is brighter now.
By mid-August I will be done with my Bachelor’s degree, and hopefully only working one full time job. Also, my husband and I will be settled in our new house!
I’ve got a writing room all planned out, so keep your eyes open for pictures in the coming months as progress is made.
And so I set my sights on August. I hang my hopes and dreams from the peak of the “A” and count the days to when I can put all this energy into the one thing that’s been missing from my life these last two years.
I so desperately miss writing. Here I thought my Sci-Fi writing class would help, and instead it woke the thing in me that demands creation. I’d managed to lull it to sleep with French and Art History homework, and appeased it with so much literature that it had no time to think of writing.
And then I wrote 28 pages for a Cards story.
I can only describe the feeling as a pure and utter longing. An ache that no amount of reading can fully satiate. In fact, even my reading has suffered. I think, since I read The Magician King, I’ve read two books. Two books since March. It makes me want to cry and scream.
I am capable of so much more. But guilt-tripping myself only leads to petulant bouts of procrastination. Instead of finishing Sharp Ends, I read 56 chapters of a Mass Effect fanfiction. One I’ve already read! And now that that’s done, I’ve started another play-through of the games.
I fear that my hard fought discipline has let itself go, and that putting the metaphorical pen to paper in August will prove more difficult than it should. That I’ll sit down, desperate to write anything, and instead I’ll just waste time staring at the desk.
Even as I give life to the fear by sharing it here, I already know that this is a very typical writerly fear. It’s kind of what makes a writer. That inexplicable and absolutely crushing self-doubt. And as much as I try, I’ve yet to succumb to it.
I doubt I’ll start in August.
Anyway, I’ve cast aside some lectures in order to write this. I don’t regret it, but I must curtail it for now. Hopefully I’ll talk to you all soon, but I won’t make any promises. July is going to be a hectic month. But August…
Yeah. August. I’ll see you then.