I haven’t felt like writing lately and I’m not sure why. I’m tired. That’s part of it. And it’s not just an I need more sleep and more tea kind of tired. It’s a I’m tired of this bullshit kind of tired. Which is true, but it’s not. It’s complicated.
Writing is hard and I’m slogging through a thoroughly outlined first draft. I don’t care about these characters anymore, and I am so very, very tempted by the siren song of new ideas. How easy would it be to jump ship and work on something else, something better, funnier, smarter, darker?
Part of it is life. I am swerving into and out of depression territory. It’s some combination of bad brain chemistry, lack of connection to the world, and stress over needing to quit my job and get a new one. I’ve grown increasingly anxious over my lack of a CAREER. How much longer can I bide my time? How much longer can I take jobs that barely pay the bills? How much longer can I feel like an adolescent?
But it’s easier not to ask those questions. It’s easier to focus on one little thing. It’s easier to read a lot and play a lot of board games and not think about the future. It’s easier to think about today. But it’s hard, because anxieties pile up. How will I find a job? How will I deal with my increasingly horrible allergies/asthma? How will I become a real adult?
It’s hard. But it’s supposed to be.