If you follow me on Twitter and have bothered to read my twitter bio, then you know I am the short, white, overweight, female Samuel L Jackson of Twitter. Since I have made this claim, I don’t feel too bad about ripping of a bit of his Pulp Fiction dialogue for my blog post title.
I have no idea if it’s cool to do this or not. If I end up inexplicably dead, then y’all should question Quentin Tarantino first.
I am either starting to come out of the other side of a painfully long bout of anxiety with bursts of depression, or I’m about to crash.
Kind of curious how this will turn out.
No worries, I suspect I’m coming around. I feel a lightness in the middle of me that I haven’t felt in months. Probably since I started this new job last December.
I belong to a Facebook group that I adore. We’re a group of women bloggers who cover such a broad range of writing. I am endlessly entertained and inspired by these women. I will be honest, I feel like I am there by mistake. I am terribly afraid that I’m the weird girl sitting her lunch tray down at the cool table without understanding that everyone is giving her the side eye. Not that anyone there has ever made me feel anything but welcome. This is just my fuckwit inner voice messing with me.
Anyway, I posted this status to my Facebook group tonight:
Do you ever hate writing more than stubbing your toe and your second husband who is currently dead? Seriously, I am making myself miserable all the fucking time worrying over projects that I want to work on or start or goddamn finish all while being old and kind of sick, working full time AND menopausal. Who does this? Crazy people. Crazy fucking people do this to themselves.
THEN I think..okay..Stop. Just don’t write anymore. You don’t have to. And THEN I think…well, fuck. What would I do then? Whatever it is, it wouldn’t be any good.
Okay…I got that off my chest. Please go about your Friday evening.
Bear with me, because I’m about to veer off for a minute, but I promise, this is going to come back around.
Friday nights are spent on skype with our mountain friends. We have a standing date and have for months and months, maybe even years by now. We have named Friday night ‘youth group’ night. I look forward to youth group like I looked forward to Christmas eve when I was a kid.
Anyway, I spoke with Mountain Girl and the Bass Player about where my head has been and in speaking with them I found some clarity.
I am not going to stop writing. Fuck that. This is what I want. However, I do need to make some changes.
I want to finish the book I am (kind of) working on and just rewriting the chapter outline was like having my toenails pulled off with rusty pliers. If I am struggling this much with an outline, how the fuck am I going to write a goddamn book?
As we spoke, my friends suggested that I redirect some of my focus. Maybe scale back on some other projects and focus more on the book. My blog, for instance. How hard would it be to post a little less frequently? Perhaps submit less to other outlets as well and really focus on the book.
Writing this blog has been one of the most rewarding things I have ever done. I love it. I get instant gratification. I write something. I kind of edit it. Randy goes in and fixes the shit I miss when I edit. I post it. Then I talk with you guys. I love it. I have no desire to stop writing my blog, but I need to scale it back a little.
I feel like I’m stuffing myself with candy all the fucking time. I am gorging on writing in short bursts and then moving on to the next idea. I’m not running myself down or suggesting that there is no substance, but I have to find out if I can do more. I have to stop only eating candy. I have to stop relying on this instant gratification to take me to the next day.
This goes for social media as well. I have to step back. Not leave, fuck that. I love social media, but I have to change my focus. I get a shit ton of encouragement, opportunities, and enjoyment from social media, but the truth is, I use it as an avoidance tool.
I have to step back.
I have to plan.
I have to let go of my need for constant instant gratification because I don’t think it is my friend.
Here are my fears and/or self-recriminations:
Your stats just started getting much more impressive. Now you’re going to scale back and watch that die? After working for years on this blog?
You are too big for your britches here. A book? A memoir? Who gives a fuck about your dumb life anyway? Self indulgent twat.
You’ll fade away.
You’ll stop writing and then where will you be? Restless and unhappy and that isn’t good for anyone.
I’m going to ignore those fears and move forward, because the alternatives are bleak. I’ve been living in a bleak place for way too many months now. I need to get to a more comfortable place in my head. I can’t keep driving myself crazy over this book. If I am going to write it, then I have to admit that I only have so many hours in a day and only so much stamina. I also can’t risk burning myself out because, if that happens, I would be miserable. I’d probably take up knitting and be terrible at it. You’d see me on the news in some sort of knitting needle related assault.
I’m not going to stop writing my blog, I just won’t be quite so prolific.
I really want all of you with me because you guys are like the best security blanket on the planet.
I’m also turning the stat counter off my blog. I’m not going to look at them anymore. So, obviously, I’m going to need you all to cuddle me.