I’m getting in my head. I’m scared I’m not going to be able to keep this up. That I don’t actually have anything worth saying. That I’ll never crack the code or flick the switch.
I’m scared I’m kidding myself. I’m scared I should have let this thing go already. I can’t let it go.
Three years later, my book was a black hole. I realized the project would never be finished. Maybe that’s the real reason I stopped working on it.
All this time I thought I stopped working on my life’s work because I met a boy. Justin, my first boyfriend ever, swept me off my feet when I was thirty-one.
Yes, Justin was a distraction. But I didn’t stop because of him. I stopped because what I was doing wasn’t working. (Perhaps if I hadn’t met Justin, I would have resolved the issue sooner. But that’s unlikely. If I weren’t distracted by love, I’d be by dating, which is definitely more exhausting.)
The truth is, it got hard. Writing is hard. So I stopped writing. Then I went crazy. For about seven years.
This is my art. My expression of self. I am here because, over the past seven years, I have learned that when I don’t write, I go crazy. It’s as simple as that. Not writing is the root cause of my existential spiral.
I feel like Jesus walking on water. Each step another beat, keeping me afloat. A miracle.
Is it a miracle? Or is it simply the result of showing up for the past two months? I wrote 1,500 words every day. And not just when I felt like writing.
Usually, “I feel like writing” when I realize that I am talking to myself out loud and enjoying the conversation. I should be writing this down! By the time I find a pen or open my laptop, the spark is gone. Then, I don’t feel like writing anymore.
But if I take the time to sit here, and write 1,500 words, regardless of their quality or content, I am creating the opportunity for progress. That is not a miracle.
And yet, it is always miraculous when I read back what I have shared, and it saves me.
Keep calm and cha cha on.
We’re in this together.