The hour before 8pm, where I have decided that I will write everyday for the month of November grips me with this rush of anxiety that is like the anxiety felt when one quits smoking. I’ve had a lot of experience with that last idea (I’ve quit smoking about 5 times in my life, not unlike Mark Twain).
Giving up smoking is the easiest thing in the world. I know because I’ve done it thousands of times. – Mark Twain
And I always crave it a little more when I have a notebook in my hands — or a cup of coffee…getting side tracked.
I’ve scheduled time to write this month. I’ve made a point to start each session off with a post (except for one time where I pushed the post after…mistake). There are moments leading up to the time where I force myself in to the office, shut the door, put in the headphones and turn on the computer –where I would rather be doing anything else. Going to the dentist, washing all the pots (which was my escapism tonight), making dinner, vacuuming, or literally all the things I hate.
I’m not sure why I allow all of this build up. But I do fear sitting down to write. I fear what I write will never be read or somehow more horribly that it will be and it will be judged and the court will decide I am a horrible writer and human. Not sure what court, but these are fears or tiny paranoia. They swim up and down the surface of my mind.
Sorry…not sorry lots of Schmit gifs
But so far, I’ve made time to write, I’ve pushed everything else out of the way even when it wasn’t the best idea (there were 2 nights where I was a little low on the word count due to interruptions). Here’s to the last 9 days of November and where they might take me.
Yesterday, I did it. I gave myself time to get into it to get ready for it, to write. Today, um…not so much. I woke up late because well it’s Sunday and it’s one of the few days of the week that I get to sleep in (which is true because I work from home) and because we got to add an hour. A crazy thing called daylight savings time. I’m sure it happens in other parts of the world for far greater reasons than it happens in the bustling metropolis that I call home. Perhaps, farmers need to wake up when the sun is barely breaking over the horizon. Perhaps for school children as they wait for buses in the early morning. Perhaps it is just to save a few cents on electric bills before the winter. Whatever the reason, I am grateful this weekend for an extra hour. An extra hour to make up for my horrible procrastination.
You might think that after a few years of avoidance of writing that everything would come out like a breach in a dam, but for whatever reason all that is coming out are emotions into every day life. The walls of the dam are still standing and creativity is only dripping but the water of pain and emotion has broken over the top of the wall, like twenty-foot breakers. Tumultuous and fear inducing. I’m standing in front of the cement wall watching the cracks and trying to hold it back, knowing that a storm is coming. I’ve dreaded this. This outpouring of emotion and this release of thoughts and feelings for years. The build up.
I spent the morning with the husband reading devotionals, a first for us in our new house. I broke. I know there is a plan for me, but it never is in the forefront of my mind. It’s that buzzing bee around my head that I run away from, hide from, swat at. There are certain things you see when you allow yourself to see them — and if you are me they are things that you ignore. Here’s to a week of looking at the signs and holding the wall up a bit longer — for a bit more sanity.