I’ve been sitting here for an hour trying to decide what to write. My head feels like a bowl of cooked spaghetti and my thoughts are inextricably tangled. I haven’t been writing much fiction, and I’m feeling more and more the imposter here. I don’t know what to do about that. Write more? Possibly. I want to write, and there are stories that sometimes surface, only to dive elusively back into the noodles when I reach for them.
I’m tired, and I’m frustrated. The house work has stalled out, and while I’d like to do the next things myself, they are literally too large and I need help carrying them. Which I do not have. Plus, the truck I’d use to do some things has been filled with rubbish and can’t be emptied until Monday, leaving me with a lost weekend and a feeling of impotent anger. I do these things to myself. Bite off more than I can chew and then wind up choking on it. So right now I’m sitting here trying to figure out what to cut out, so I can stop with the whirling feelings of inadequacy. While the neighbor’s dog cries lamentations on the other side of the kitchen window, a perfect soundtrack of despair.
Some of this is external. I can control it to some extent – the poor dog, I can try to ignore. The furniture? Well, probably time to figure out how to replace it with items I can move, and sell or discard the ones I can’t shift alone if I can’t get help. The truck? I can use my car instead and anything too big for the car can go into the category above. The writing…
That’s all internal. I’m not sure I can sort that out. I’ve been encouraged to stop trying to be a professional writer, to only do it as a hobby when I’m in the mood to. That feels like failure… it is failure. But it might be the only way to maintain my momentum in the parts of life that really matter, where I’m useful to my family. Not the parts that only massage my ego. Like the too-heavy home furnishings, the writing may be more than I can bear. Scratch that. Not the letting the stories out on paper. Can manage that, it’s like making trips ferrying boxes of books from storage with my car. What I can’t do is the marketing and the promotion and all the sundry other things that ride along with the writing. So there’s not much point, is there?
It’s like my art. Periodically I get a very enthusiastic comment, and I appreciate the sentiment behind it, that I really should be selling more art/in a gallery/whatever. I always feel like there’s a knife twisting in a wound when I see those, even as I thank them cheerfully. Sure, they like my work. I like that. I don’t like the knowledge that most art as the random man on the street sees it, isn’t actually worth much. The high prices they read about only exist when there’s money laundering involved. Art like mine? Can be and usually is yoinked by right click and save image because ‘Oh, I’m not using it for anything commercial…’ and commissions are rare. I do get them. I appreciate those people, who pay. It’s the ultimate compliment, really. Buy a print, a file, a book. That’s the way to feed your soul-starving artist.
But enough whining from me. I think I’ll take my cup of coffee and wander around the yard as the dawn pinkens the horizon. And I’ll talk to the damn dog, see if I can’t cheer the poor pup up. He’s got both of us singing the blues. I’d howl with him, but the other neighbors don’t need to hear that!
(header image: Art Deco Motif by Cedar Sanderson)