My house is coming together. Check out my insta for some pics.
I’m overwhelmed with work. As in, my professional job where I spend my days. The spring is just saturated with events that require me to put on my extrovert mask– and which keep me from my manuscript.
I started work on the new (old) novel. Day one, I tried to write chapter one, and it did not go well. The beginning is so, so, so hard. So day two, I started with the first scene in the book where I feel the characters are already established, and it felt GREAT. So excited about all my characters and my ideas.
But I know the perfect novel in my head will not be the novel I end up writing. It’s not possible. I feel like this is something Plato understood. That said, a novel that is written trumps a novel never written. There is a way in which a novel that is written is more beautiful than the perfect novel, exactly because it is written.
My stress is leveling out. I think. I hope. I can breathe again. I’m telling myself to pace myself. If I work on stuff– even a little bit– each day, it will slowly come together. That’s how it works.
We had a snowstorm in Minnesota. We got about ten inches of snow where I live. And then we carried on with life. (Because here our infrastructure expects that (and is ready for even more), so the plows and the salt and the snow blowers and the weird little things that clear the sidewalks on my campus just come out and take care of business– fast– and then we all go back to work.) It makes me a little sad (the snow), but truth be told, the fact that it’s still light out when I leave work is making my heart SING. It’s this little promise that spring will come again. I treasure the light.
I still haven’t been reading. Even my therapist told me to make time for this. I will. I need to. It’s like I feel this vacancy where I know there should be inspiration. I just have to remember how to thread this into my life: audiobooks, no writing on Mondays, taking time before bed. I know these things. I just need to start acting on them. I will.
I need a vacation. Well, what I need is concentrated time set aside to write. Seven days in Duluth would be ideal. But it’s not in the budget, and I am PTO-poor, and I’m telling myself it’s okay and that I can wait a few months. Even though I have a draft due before then. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.
I purchased a keychain pill container. There were too many times I needed Ativan and it was sitting at home. NO MORE.
I’ve had a lot of thoughts lately about the OCD parts of my blog. They are the most popular part of my website, and it’s starting to bother me. I guess I find myself continually leaning into the author part of my identity, but my blog keeps forcing me into my advocacy identity, which, to be perfectly frank, I’m less interested in these days. Wait, no. That didn’t come out quite right. I’m still interested in advocacy; I’m just more interested in writing and literature and kind of want to just enjoy my remission. I feel a little guilty about it, but only a very, very, very little. That said, I’m not sure if I should separate my OCD posts from my website and repost them elsewhere. What do you guys think?
I want to hear from you. Please chime in so I know I’m not just talking to myself over here. Please.