At the risk of repeating myself . . .
Here I am again, five months after my last post wondering how this much time went by. I have to be candid—I pretty much forgot I even had a blog. Apparently, when you finally remember you have a blog after months away from it, you have to clear a lot of spam. A LOT of spam.
Things have changed a bit. When I first published this website and blog about a year ago, I had every intention of returning to freelance commercial writing. With the exception of a few small projects, that just hasn’t happened. I’ve come to the conclusion that between my volunteer position, parenting, and trying to maintain some semblance of sanity, I just don’t really have the time to rebuild that business right now. So, reluctantly, I’ve decided not to pursue any freelance commercial projects for the time being. You may notice that the website has been updated accordingly.
You may have also noticed that I have added some material. Not much, granted, but a bit. I’ve added a page for My Books and a page for My Old Life, which includes a link to my old blog, Modicum of Talent. I’ve also revised the My Story page a bit. And it’s there that you might be able to see the biggest change.
I guess I’ve realized something. I guess I’ve finally maybe figured out—maybe—that there’s really no hope for me. I can keep myself from the computer, I can purposely lose all of my writing instruments, I can distract myself with yarn and books to read and a thousand other commitments, but the words come out anyway. I can be cooking dinner or watching a movie or deeply engrossed in a conversation, and my mind will drift to the place where words tumble out and form story.
But I am finding myself the most reluctant of writers.
I do not want this. I don’t want these stories, these characters. I don’t want them in my head, on my computer, certainly not on Amazon.
But they are here anyway. And if I don’t let them out, the story, the need to write, the repressed creativity poisons me.
Dramatic? Perhaps. I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s a poison so real it leaks out my eyes and turns my spoken words to venom. It’s a poison that makes my heart constrict.
But at the same time, there is fear, embarrassment, shame, guilt, all the other things I’ve struggled with for the last three or five or 40 years. I can’t remember. I’ve lost count.
I just know there are a thousand thousand reasons to never write again, and only one reason to write.
I don’t know how I’m going to do it. I made a promise to myself that I would never write with the kids or the husband around again, but if I keep that promise, I may never write. I can’t neglect my family, though. I went down that road before, and I was fortunate enough to get a do-over, and I won’t screw it up. Not to mention my rather demanding volunteer position and the usual balancing act of trying to keep a home in some semblance of order. (I pretty much fail at that last one most of the time. I’m learning to live with that.)
But I also know that when I’m not writing, I’m crying—sometimes literally. And I worry about the message I’m sending my kids, especially my daughters, that Mom’s needs and wants aren’t important enough to even make it into the top ten priorities. That’s probably not a message I want them to receive.
So I guess I’m going to give this fiction-writing thing one more shot. One more serious shot. I don’t know how, but I guess I’ll figure something out. And I guess I’ll try to blog here more often so that y’all can help me navigate this path.
Maybe with the help of a few good friends, I won’t be quite so reluctant.