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Bird by bird.
I'm writing again.
This is a really big deal for me right now, not least of all because it means I am finally progressing on a story that has pretty much been stalled for over a year - and yes, it really has been that long! But more than that... well. See, I'd been stuck for so long and had struggled so. Much. Every time I sat down and attempted to bang out my hour's worth of writing. Some days I'd barely manage a sentence. And I wasn't doing it with any regularity, either - I spent so much time preaching on my lj the benefits of daily exercise, writing-wise, and yet I found myself in the hypocritical position of being unable to manage it myself.
I'm reading this over and am realizing how difficult a person I am, especially when it comes to recognizing that I'm only human. I hold myself to impossibly high standards - okay, maybe not impossible, but beyond the reach of my capabilities. I can't realistically expect myself to perform the way I want to when I am literally incapable of performing the way I want to. Ugh. That sounds very convoluted and repetitive.
What it boils down to, basically, is this: I'm writing again. I'm writing again, not quite the way I was writing in 2009 when I was pounding out a 20k word chapter every month, but I'm getting there. Eventually. And almost 100% of that is owed to me making a really difficult decision and letting go of something that was suffocating me. I can't even begin to describe how miserable I felt when I made that choice. I felt like a sellout, like I was taking the easy road, like I was making a decision because it made sense in my head but not in my heart. And I felt it really keenly afterwards. It's like breaking up with someone who you've been with forever. You love each other, deeply and emphatically, but there's fighting and anger and pain, too, and you just can't do that to yourself anymore. So you make a choice.
I made a choice, and I hated myself for it afterwards. I overlooked the bad times and elevated the good to near-reverential status, far more than was deserved. I regretted it, a little more, every day.
And then one morning a week ago I woke up, sat down and started writing. And then I did it again the next day. And the next. And the next. And I'm still doing it.
I gave up something I loved that I am only now able to acknowledge was sapping every last drop of creative energy from my body, and now that that unspeakable, unnameable thing is out of my life, the other thing, the more important thing, the thing that compels me to get up while morning is still dim and boil water for my tea and sit down in my corner and write, is slowly coming back.
I'm writing again. It feels really, really good.
This is a really big deal for me right now, not least of all because it means I am finally progressing on a story that has pretty much been stalled for over a year - and yes, it really has been that long! But more than that... well. See, I'd been stuck for so long and had struggled so. Much. Every time I sat down and attempted to bang out my hour's worth of writing. Some days I'd barely manage a sentence. And I wasn't doing it with any regularity, either - I spent so much time preaching on my lj the benefits of daily exercise, writing-wise, and yet I found myself in the hypocritical position of being unable to manage it myself.
I'm reading this over and am realizing how difficult a person I am, especially when it comes to recognizing that I'm only human. I hold myself to impossibly high standards - okay, maybe not impossible, but beyond the reach of my capabilities. I can't realistically expect myself to perform the way I want to when I am literally incapable of performing the way I want to. Ugh. That sounds very convoluted and repetitive.
What it boils down to, basically, is this: I'm writing again. I'm writing again, not quite the way I was writing in 2009 when I was pounding out a 20k word chapter every month, but I'm getting there. Eventually. And almost 100% of that is owed to me making a really difficult decision and letting go of something that was suffocating me. I can't even begin to describe how miserable I felt when I made that choice. I felt like a sellout, like I was taking the easy road, like I was making a decision because it made sense in my head but not in my heart. And I felt it really keenly afterwards. It's like breaking up with someone who you've been with forever. You love each other, deeply and emphatically, but there's fighting and anger and pain, too, and you just can't do that to yourself anymore. So you make a choice.
I made a choice, and I hated myself for it afterwards. I overlooked the bad times and elevated the good to near-reverential status, far more than was deserved. I regretted it, a little more, every day.
And then one morning a week ago I woke up, sat down and started writing. And then I did it again the next day. And the next. And the next. And I'm still doing it.
I gave up something I loved that I am only now able to acknowledge was sapping every last drop of creative energy from my body, and now that that unspeakable, unnameable thing is out of my life, the other thing, the more important thing, the thing that compels me to get up while morning is still dim and boil water for my tea and sit down in my corner and write, is slowly coming back.
I'm writing again. It feels really, really good.