I haven't written in a while...
Not my blog post, or a new manuscript, or anything I deem worthwhile. I've kind of been in a funk lately, and though I really don't like it, I'm not sure how to make it go away.
A year and a half ago, oh hell, my whole life, I've attempted to better myself, do SOMETHING that would bring about a catalyst for change. While there's nothing wrong with getting up in the morning, going to a nine-to-five job, coming home in the evening for dinner with the family, watching a couple of episodes of your favorite show, and then going to bed, only to repeat the next day, that has never been the life I wanted. That's not to say I haven't lived it. For decades I've lived it. But I always yearned for something else - something just out of reach. Maybe I don't know how to be contented with what I have. Could be. I wouldn't argue with anyone who suggested that. Or maybe I think - know - feel - that I can be something more. Have something more. I'm not talking about fame and fortune. Really, I'm not. Okay, maybe just a little fortune. I'm talking about a life that fulfills me. That eases the place in my soul that is never quite satisfied with how I'm getting along in life. Is it supposed to be this hard? Seriously??
So back to the funk. I see myself today in the same place I was a year and a half ago, before I began writing. Oh, there are miniscule changes. I've published books, met new people, made new friends. I've learned how to do things I never imagined doing and stepped out of my comfort zone on many occasions. But when I look at the big picture, I'm still standing in the same place. Day to day life hasn't changed. It hasn't gotten better or, thank god, worse. It just is. So it makes me wonder, is the effort worth it? Is all of the time and money and emotional upheaval worth being in the same place I was when I started? Would I be happier if I went back to that nine-to-five life, vegging out on the sofa in the evenings, watching TV? I know the answer even without anyone telling me. No. I wouldn't be. I wasn't happier then, so what makes me think I'd be happy going back to that? There's something in me, deep down in the furthest reaches that pushes me to challenge myself, challenge the nine-to-five way of life, do something different, creative. So I do.
In the meantime, I attempt not to give in to the lack of progression that I see. And before anyone jumps on me about it taking time, just keep going, blah, blah, blah, I'm not only referring to the book side of my life. I'm talking about me - the person. The whole person. Not only an author, or wife, or co-worker, or friend, or mother to my furry children. I'm talking about all of that plus the parts of me that only I know exist.
I was hoping that by writing this down, getting it 'off my chest', so to speak, I'd feel better. Writing usually helps. This time it didn't. But that's okay. I'm not quite ready to turn on a Netflix marathon just yet. I don't think. Now where did I put that remote?