Here it sits. My current "life on paper".
I looked at this little pile today, and the weariness hit me again. The whole someone-please-tell-me-again-why-I-do-this-thing.
You know I must be desperate if I've resorted to scissors and tape. I needed something tactile, I think. Something to give this mess of a first draft a tangible nature that might--just might--help me to sort it all out.
But, oh. I'm tired.
This isn't a whine. This isn't an oh-please-feel-as-sorry-for-me-as-you-possibly-can crowdsourcing effort.
This is reality.
I mean, seriously. Why?
And it's a hard one to answer, isn't it? Because we can't lump writing up there with the basics. You know--air, water, shelter, food. Those are the things you NEED to survive.
I've got all that, too.
So, where does the writing fit in?
Forgets to breath.
Loses its joy.
I've got that. But writing isn't my only creative outlet. I'm a musician. I take ballet classes. I have a background in theatre (and even today, the world is my stage). Heck, I even scrapbook.
So it's not like I'm going to stab myself with my purple pen if I never write again.
But it remains true that, if I don't write on a given day, I feel irritated. Like the day is somehow unfinished. And I have to ask myself--is this because of my undying need to create? Or is it because of my long-held, firmly-entrenched career goals as a writer?
I think it's the latter.
And, guys, I've been doing this for a long time. I watch saplings sprout and grow into orchards around me while I still wait for my first blooms to ripen into fruit. I keep tabs on all the lovely authors who have made their way into the ranks of the published via their involvement with this blog. I cheer them and I support them and I'm ever so grateful to have been part of their journeys.
But I'm weary.
Just the other day, I was expressing my frustration to someone very dear to me. And he said, very matter-of-factly, "Maybe it isn't meant to be."
Huh. That's not what I wanted to hear. Because that's not what I've believed for the past decade of my life.
I have been all HOPE (in between the despair) and CONFIDENCE (in between the abject insecurities) and DETERMINATION (in between the planning-to-quit) and BIG, BIG DREAMS. How can this be "not meant to be"? How can I have been so wrong about the goals I've set for myself? About my absolute certainty that I am finally on the right path?
But then, this very-dear-person-in-my-life tends to see things black and white. Tends to be a bit of an Eeyore. So I know I need to take his response with a healthy grain of salt (possibly from the rim of a Margarita glass).
Still. His words sort of burrowed inside my soul, and now they keep nudging me.
What if it isn't meant to be?
Meant to be?
Meant to be?
But I can't let that be my mantra. I've got a story begging to be told well, and I'm determined to do it. And I've got an already-told story with which I'm deeply in love, and for which I am still hopeful that the T will become an S.
So, this weariness? I'm going to have to ignore it. Shove it aside. Not give it the attention it's crying for.
That doesn't mean it's going to go away. It is what it is. And I am what I am--a weary author who really doesn't know why she keeps pressing on.
Yet here I go, diving into THIS:
Sometimes we've just got to be honest, yes? And in this honesty, we are able to support and encourage each other on a deeper level.
I'm weary, but I still support you. I'm weary, but I'm not quitting. I'm weary, but I promise to tell you when (if) the day comes on which I finally have to say good-bye to all this.
And you? Allow yourself to feel everything you need to feel. Then keep writing. Keep writing and keep believing and keep learning and keep on keeping on until you know BEYOND A DOUBT that your weariness will consume you if you take one more step.
Onward, dear ones.