I’ve been feeling out of sorts lately. A general meh and what have you. Like I’m stuck in molasses, trapped under one of those dull yellow filters Hollywood uses for movies set in the middle east or Mexico.
We’re in this weird transition phase, one foot firmly stuck in the pandemic while the other tentatively reaches for something resembling normalcy. I’ve never been good with uncertainty, being type A and all that. And even though I’m hopeful, I’m too scared to trust and believe that this nightmare is finally ending.
The children start school in April – in person, a few hours a week, all masked up and sitting in their sterile bubbles. They’re thrilled, and so am I, because God knows these little ones need all the human interaction they can get. It also means I have more time to myself. To sit down with a hot cup of coffee and actually finish it before it goes cold. To read a book, take my time putting on makeup, maybe even resume a fitness schedule. I should be jumping with joy and planning my child-free days with all sorts of glorious nonsense.!–more–>
But all I feel is blah. Blah-de-blabbity-blah.
I know what will get me out of this funk. Writing pages upon pages of horror, romance, or whatever grabs my fancy. But the irony (oh, the irony) is I struggle to find time to write. Between the children, running a household, and a million little things, I rarely come up for air until it’s 10 pm.
Now I’m pretty self-aware. I know you’re shaking your head and thinking, “Well geez, if you really wanted to write, you would make time! Get up early, sleep later, delegate chores. No one’s fault but your own!”
And I would nod right along because I am making excuses. Since this isn’t my primary career, I find it easier to put it on the back burner. “Maybe tomorrow,” I tell myself. Or “This isn’t important, not right now!” And because there isn’t any accountability, my writing falls by the wayside, and I sink deeper into the funk. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
So there. That’s the barebones truth, warts and all. I need a swift, pointy kick in the pants, and I’m proceeding to administer one to myself.
“Now listen — no more whining. Get to writing, putting pen on paper or fingers to the keyboard. Write something every day. Maybe a snazzy blurb or a short love story. Hell, write a grocery list, for all I care. It doesn’t need to be pretty or poetic. But write. And post it here — on your blog, so your thirty-two followers can find something that mildly piques their interest while they sip their morning coffee.
Stop whining, hold yourself accountable, and get to writing.
With love and exasperation (because get it together, girl!)
Pavi.
Today is Day 1. I will see you tomorrow, I promise. Because like Teddy Roosevelt said:
“The worst thing you can do is nothing.”
