My brain feels like dirty, knotted, tangled string. Usually when I get out of work for the week I am eventually able to shake off work like pool water and focus on the part of my life that is the reason I work like I do. Even though I am free from my night job today and I slept last night, I feel depressed. I don’t know if it was the extra work day, the busy week, or the constant feeling that I carry most of my shift after all the day people leave.
My daughter is doing her teenaged angst thing again because she is having trouble at school with grades and other kids. I imagine she feels the same about school as I do work. I wish I could fix it all.
I wish I could write. I know as a writer, unless you are a giant name, it is a struggle to make a living. I know that if I do get all the books that I have in progress finished and out, and even if they do well, I would not be making more that I do now. I would still be balancing bills and paying late fees. However, I think that would be better.
I don’t know how to explain it. I would still be under pressure and stress. I would be working without a safety net. There would be no guarantee I would bring in money. However, being able to pay bills without my shoulders being partially dislocated from heavy stock and my upper back in constant pain from spending hours bent over hanging stickers has its appeal.
I know this isn’t very cheerful for a blog post. I didn’t really intend to write a post but this is where my fingers lead me when I decided to try to write out my current problems. I could have tucked it away in a writing folder or scribbled it out in my journal, but I thought maybe if I put it here I might get some feed back. Maybe someone might have an idea. At the very least if there is someone else out there feeling the same they will know they are not alone.
When I get depressed I buy office supplies. I don’t know why. I just do. A few minutes ago I purchased return address labels.
Will I use them? Yes, probably. Did I need them? Probably not.
I go back to work tonight so that means for the next seven days I will get little or no writing done. The problem is the past seven days I had off, I got little to no writing done. That’s what has me down. Really its nothing new. I often hit lows like this, I think a lot of writers do. It’s that moment in time where you start to question yourself.
This week my son had the flu. This week I had my birthday. (I’m not saying which one.) This week I was attacked by a thousand things left undone while I played doctor mom. So when I finally got time to write I was so exhausted I couldn’t spell my own name let alone form coherent sentences.
I still haven’t heard from any of my beta readers. As of last week none of them had found the time to start my book. This leaves me in limbo with that particular novel. Also my Scifi novel is almost ready to go to my betas but I can’t send it to them until they are finished with the Fantasy novel. I am attempting to find a few new betas but my problem is that I don’t trust the opinions of my back-up betas as much as I trust my current crew.
I have one artist that asks just the right questions, one sister-in-law who is a born editor, and one good friend who is also a writer. They are the best beta readers I could ask for…when they don’t have other distractions or obligations.
Admittedly, I am impatient. However, this is my brand new baby that I handed over to them. No one else has seen it yet.
My woe begone thoughts make question my writing ability. I mean how awesome can I really be if my friends aren’t interested in reading my stuff? I realize that life gets in the way, but part of me (the arrogant selfish part) thinks that my words should be so entertaining that people should drop everything and read my book right now.
Then the circular logic starts. If I can’t display the patience necessary does that mean I’m not really a good writer? If I go a few days without writing does that mean I am not a writer? Have I just deluded myself that I am good at this whole writing thing just because I want to be so badly? It’s that dragon of self doubt raising its fanged maul again.
I am a writer. Why? Because I don’t give up.