I’m not writing today. Maybe I won’t write tomorrow. And since these are my two free days during the week, that means I probably won’t really write at all this week. I will continue my streak of having zero progress as a writer.
I think I’m having a down swing. Last week I cried four out of seven days, which isn’t normal for me, and therefore is probably a bad sign. This week, I’m burdened with an enormous feeling of uselessness. It’s not the sort of uselessness that you feel when you’re standing in a situation and not able to help. This feeling that I’m having is very grandiose. I feel like I don’t know what I want to do with my life. I don’t know if I should go back to school, or quit my job, or write, or what. I feel that I’m wasting the most precious gift God has given me which is my life. I’m just useless, or worse, average, which means I’m replaceable.
Of course, I’m writing this post. It’s Tuesday, let’s not be daft. I’m writing this more for myself than potential readers. I’ve never really stuck something out. I’ve had half a dozen attempts at blogs since graduating. I never stuck with them. Today marks my six month anniversary of this blog. I’ve never ever done anything like this before.
I met deadlines and had consistency in school because I had teachers and my parents and my siblings there to watch over me and keep me on track. Even if they weren’t actively sitting me down and making me do work, their presence was enough to keep me going and on the right track. In my personal life, especially now post-college, no one cares. If you do something, amaze-balls! If you don’t do something, whatever, I didn’t even know that was something you were trying. All the deadlines and consistency fall on me. I have to schedule my life and if I stop caring, no one will step in and force me to adult.
It takes so much effort. Especially with writing. It takes such dedication and focus. You have to keep yourself on track. If you wander away from a story, publishers aren’t going to openly weep. They’re drowning in thousands of manuscripts already.
I’ve tried a lot of different things. I’ve taken very measured and concise steps towards writing as well as off the cuff leaps. Currently, I’m pushing myself through a short story. I like it. I constantly am thinking about where I want it to go. Yet, writing it down feels like a marathon. I get done with two pages and think, “My God! It was only two and not two hundred!” Physically, I feel exhausted and my brain gets all wobbly. Then I’m angry at myself for not being better. Maybe I should write every day at 8 am. Or I should make myself write three pages a day. Or I could set aside a special place in my home to write. All of these I’ve tried.
Possibly, I need someone to sit me down and say I wasn’t meant to be a writer, which is completely unfair, mind you. I have nights where I can’t fall asleep because the characters in my head are talking too loud or the narrator won’t shut up. I’ll have to climb out of bed, turn on the light, and write out a page or so of story before I can fall asleep. I try to keep in mind that Jane Austen didn’t publish a book until she was about thirty-six. Yeah, she’d basically written the story years before, but it also had to go through major revisions. She also had to put her name to Mansfield Park. Hope still remains for me. I just don’t know quite at this moment how to make myself be the person I want to be. In the same sense, I don’t want writing to become dreadful or painful either.
So, today I’m not going to write, nothing serious at least. I’m going to drink copious amount of coffee, watch YouTube videos about doing your hair, and maybe by creamer so I can have more coffee. I might cajole my roommate into decorating blank mugs with Sharpies and baking them in the oven. I could possibly do the dishes. Maybe I’ll shower. Maybe I won’t. And that will be okay.