The Edge

I've been made of fail with regard to this journal. Although, I don't seem to be alone in that. My f-list over here has been suspiciously silent. I keep forgetting about this journal -- partly on purpose and partly not on purpose. The on-purpose part is because I haven't been writing much this summer. (Or at all. >.O) And it's discouraging to me, even though I know I should post, post, post about it to work through the frustrations and gunk in my head.

I had planned on getting so much done this summer. Best laid plans and all that. I probably should have known it wouldn't work out. I know myself, after all. I never thought I was a lazy person, but maybe I am. I have been busy, but, compared to others I know, I haven't been busy at all. And they still seem to get a ton of stuff done. I'm really not sure what's wrong with me, to tell you the truth. Or maybe there's nothing wrong with me, and I'm being too hard on myself.

My daughter was home all summer. I had planned on her doing all-day camp to give me some mental free-time for working. But that fell through, which, really, was OK. I like being with her. But having an active, loud little kid around isn't conducive to any kind of work that involves brain power. Plus, it's all on me. I love my hubby, but he pretty much does nothing with regard to child care and keeping the house. I understand that's my job and all. My mom loves to remind me of that, which never fails to make me angry. But it's frustrating that his job ends at a certain time of day, at which time he can come home and be "not working". My job never freaking ends. I'm always working. Always doing stuff. And pretty much stuff I don't want to do.

My parents visited for an extended period of time. Two weeks for my dad, and three for my mom. A month with my mom ... It's a daunting thing. I love her, but she is a force of nature. She must have things her way, and she comes to visit with her own agenda for how the visit should go. It's hard to explain, but everything turns into such a stressful battle of wills for me that I'm very withdrawn and psychologically not in a good place by the time she leaves. It takes me at least a week or two to recover once she's gone. That is, if I have the peace and quiet to do so. This time, I really don't, as I have company coming again on Saturday. Not looking forward to it, and I hope their visit passes quickly.

And, overall, I think I'm just discouraged and bitter about the whole writing thing. I have so little support from my circle of friends and family. I think my hubby is finally going to manage to finish the book. I'm grateful that he took the time to do this, as he doesn't read. At all. At the same time, I had to practically beg him to do it. And it's taken him almost as long to read as it took me to write the damn thing. Hubby's secretary has read it, too. She liked it, even though she normally reads mystery-thrillers and it's a fantasy-type book. So, that's encouraging, I guess. Unless they are just being nice and saying they liked it. I'm honestly not sure any more.

But that's it. Out of all the people (probably around 10 or 15 people I trusted enough to agree to let them see it) who approached me and said, "Hey, I want to read it!" these are the only two people who actually have. And I had to beg one of them to do it. I've heard all the excuses by now. I really have. And, on some level, I do understand. It is a long book. It's a big undertaking to ask someone to look at it. But then, I think about how I didn't ask them to do it -- they asked me. So, what does this mean? It makes me feel like the book must be horrible. If it wasn't, wouldn't people actually read it? Especially when they are supposed to be my friends? Especially when they asked me to look at it, instead of the other way around? Sure, I know people have little time. But most of the people I know have plenty of time to read fanfiction and help others out with their fanfiction stories. So, it doesn't seem time is really the problem. It has to be either me, or the book, or both. Whatever. I've tried to come to other conclusions, but this is the one my brain settles on.

At this point, I'm so tired of people asking to read the book and then not following through, that I tend to refuse when people offer. Because I can't take it any more. It hurts. And, even worse than that, it makes me feel alone. And like a failure. I need to try and edit the first book. To see if, maybe, I can make something out of the pile of crap it so obviously is. But I look at it, and even I don't want to read it. I just don't have the energy or the desire. The whole thing feels and seems so hopeless that I basically just want to sit down and cry about it. Crap. And now I am sitting here crying while I try to type this. Bleh. Stupid of me. I need to suck it up, but I've been trying to suck it up for a long time. It just feels like I can't do that any more.

And, of course, I'm supposed to be writing the second book. But, knowing the first one is such crap that I would practically have to pay someone to read it, how can I clear my mind to work on a second book? Maybe I'm better off trashing this particular story line so that I can go off and work on something else.

Bleh. Just ... bleh.

Why must you torture me so, Muses?

Writing sux. Because of that, life kinda sux, too.

Well, I guess it doesn't totally suck. I mean, I've been working on some fanfiction. Not the next story in my on-going series. No, that would be too darn easy. Instead, I'm jumping ahead and writing stories that should come at the very end of the bleeping series. Grrrrr.

Still, it's writing. Kind of.

It's really hard to write when I get interrupted every few minutes. You know ... because the dog ripped up my daughter's comforter ... because my daughter needs help reaching something, or doing something, or finding something ... because my daughter is bored and wants to play ... because my daughter made a picture and wants to show it to me ... because I have to do laundry, and cooking, and cleaning. My brain is tired, just thinking about it. And a tired brain is not a creative brain.

Maybe the original fic will happen again soon-ish? *hopes* In the meantime, I guess I'll continue plucking away at the fanfic. Just so I'm writing something. Writing something is always better than writing nothing.

Or, failing that, maybe I'll work on some fancels. At least it's a creative pursuit. Maybe it'll get the juices flowing again. >.O

Still nothing much going on in my life, writing-wise. It hurts me to type those words. At the same time, I feel I need to be honest with myself. I need to work through these different emotions and urges. Maybe it'll help me the next time a long-standing writer's block hits me.

The frustration is the hardest thing to manage. I feel so angry and frustrated and just ... well, "off". I can't think of a better way to describe it. It permeates every aspect of my life, although such a thing hardly seems possible. How can my writing -- or the lack thereof -- affect the way I approach the world at large? It's not relevant to my relationships with my daughter and husband, to my interaction with my friends, to the way I go about my daily life. It's a part of me, but not all of me.

Or is it?

Because, more and more, I've come to think writing is pretty much all there is for me. Nothing satisfies me the way it does. Nothing makes me happier. Nothing makes me feel more fulfilled. I feel like a turd for admitting that out loud, but it's true. I need to face up to it, and, in doing so, maybe the blocked times will lessen. Well, there's hope for it, anyhow. I think.

At the same time, it scares me to admit how important writing is for me. If I admit that it's "me" -- the main part of who and what I am -- I'm admitting a huge vulnerability in my life. What if the writing goes away? What if I wake up one day, and I have nothing left to say? What if the writer's block isn't just a block, but the beginning of the end? Then, there will be nothing left to me, will there?

The more I think about it ... the more these ideas and feelings chase each other around my brain, the more frustrated and keyed up I feel. I need to relax and just let go. If I can do that, maybe then the words will come. I already know I can't force things. I know that.

But it doesn't get any easier.

This afternoon, I spent some time reading Safekeeping, by Abigail Thomas. I sat, first in my office -- with my computer cursor blinking at me, as if it could encourage me to put my own words onto the screen before me, and then in the kitchen as my daughter ate her dinner, sang a few silly songs, and the day faded into night. And, as always, I found myself lost -- happily so -- in Ms. Thomas's words. In the small glimpses she showed me of her life. In her thoughts and hopes and dreams and even her sorrows. I lost all track of time. Dishes went unwashed. Bathtime was delayed. Fae had to remind me, more than once, that it was time for her dinner. I could not stop -- did not want to stop -- until I had read each and every word. Until I had flipped the last page and could, finally, lay the book aside with a small, contented sigh.

I don't know what it is about her books and, in particular, her writing. In general, I'm not a fan of memoirs. And yet, I simply love Ms. Thomas's writing. Her depictions. The life she has managed to live through. It makes me laugh. And cry. It touches my heart, in more ways than one. It's like her words crawl into me and come to life.

And I can't help wondering: When will I be able to do that? Will I ever be able to do that? Or my favorite: Why can't I do that?

And I set the book aside, satisfied and happy to have read it. But, at the same time, sad, too, because maybe I've found my own limitations.