I know. I didn't write a May newsletter and now it's June. I know. I haven't posted since April – Jazz-oetry Month. I know. I haven't updated my Novel-In-A-Year project. I know. I haven't competed in any contests. I know. I haven't written down anything I am grateful for. I know. I haven't written many words. I know, I know. But I have reasons – not exactly excuses, but kinda sorry nonetheless.
My website and my blog looks janky. I want to change it – I have researched new color palettes and worked on creating a banner and updating my logo and looking for cute new buttons and … well, I just have some half-done jankiness to show for it.
I haven't fallen off the face of the earth. I've been life's punk. I've been whining about my new goal – 25 books in a year. And I've been whining about the tips in the writing resources I've been studying and been whining that my writing is not as good as I thought (according to the tips in the books). I've been dealing with other people's issues (I tend to be a sponge, over empathizing with others and taking on their pain deeper than they experience it themselves), and my issues as well. I've been researching my family (I can go back to the freed slaves, the white man, the full-blooded Indian/Native American, and back to people born in 1846). I've been having nervous breakdowns over my car – trouble in March and then it was hit while parked. I never knew how much I like my car, my silver puddin', until she was in the shop being repaired and I had a rental car that I hated. I've been mourning long, relaxed layered hair. I've been mourning the weight gain – I am back at my biggest and haven't been here since 2002. When your foundations don't fit, and hurt, it's time to go up a size but I just don't want to be measured again until I lose some weight. Stupid – I get it – but you aren't rational when you are in mourning.
I've spent nights crying, weeping, sobbing, in grief of dreams not yet achieved, of my own slothfulness, of my own self-pity, and of my perceived lack of everything I need. I got celibacy blues. I'm manic and then I'm depressed. I've been fussed at by doctors and walked away still not following their advice which is simple and has proven to work in the past. I can't focus. I have no drive. And I dream of being anyone but me, anywhere but here, and everything I'm not. Basically it's been a bit of a pity party but has lasted more than a night.
What am I going to do now?
I still feel no drive. I still feel no encouragement. I still feel lost. I still miss my fickle muse. I still miss the true essence of my creative self.
Eh, I'll just update you on the project that I am managing to remain focused on – reading 25 books this year.
I thought I was a big reader. People told me I was always reading. They told me I was reading at 3 and haven't stopped valuing books since. They tell me I'm great and I got boastful. And then I heard a person who was a self identified slow reader mention that he still manages to get in 70-80 books a year. I was like, "There's only 52 weeks in a year!" And at the same time I thought, "I thought I was big time when I got in two novels in a month." Actually I can read several novels in a month when I spend hours reading over weekends. But then I have times where I don't feel like reading at all so it all balances out for me. Anyway, I thought 2-3 novels a month was a manageable goal. I am far behind in my goal but am convinced I will be able to achieve it. So my list of what I've read so far is in the frame on the side. I am working on Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison this month.
Posted by: |