Mental Fog and Lost Desires

The great thing about real fog—the misty, creeping stuff—is that you tend to know it’s there.

You look out the window in the morning or descend a road into some rolling country valley and you know that you must treat the world, the outside, with care.

Safety becomes a concern—It’s automatic.

Turns out mental fog doesn’t work that way.

Instead, it’s in you as much as you’re in it.

It’s snaking through your ears, resting upon the crevices of your brain, wafting out your mouth as you smile and chat with a friend…

Without realizing it, you’ve simply become enveloped.

hazy country road with fog

It’s only when the haze clears that you realize it had been happening at all.

There are hints. Yes…Sometimes there are hints. You notice, perhaps, that a project has fallen to the wayside. Or you haven’t been eating with your spouse at night. Maybe the exercise regime has disappeared.

Always, always, we have excuses for these waning events.

One cannot ignore objective evidence of a shirked behavior, but how one chooses to interpret the evidence may be fully subject to the brain fog’s fancy.

You tell yourself it’s boredom, it’s business, it’s simply a little break.

Sometimes it really is that simple; nothing’s the matter and you are just cycling out of a phase before cycling back in.

And sometimes it’s the fog.

I don’t know when it began creeping in on me, but if I compare my work ethic over the past month (or so…?) to that of, say, last October, the difference is startling.

Monstrous even, if I’m feeling dramatic.

Back then, I worked on my book every. day. Lately it’s shrunk to one or two days per week, and now is when it needs the most attention.

Let me point out that the book was much, much more fresh back in autumn. I was in the phase of initial edits versus the five-ish I’ve processed by now.

Now it’s that banana that somehow made its way to the top of the fridge and was forgotten there, ever-ripening, for weeks.

overripe bananas in the kitchen

this would make an excellent banana bread. That’s optimism, folks.

I am going to finish this book sooner rather than later.

Sometimes coming out of the brain fog just takes hitting rock bottom…

Something jarring to cast you to the ground, snap you to your feet, and permit you from that base vantage to look up and see the overhang of haze in which you’ve been residing.

I’ve allowed people to seep into my goals so much that they somehow morphed into the goals themselves (I talk about this more in my last post).

This isn’t such a bad thing, on its own. Relationships are important.

But me? It seems like I can’t balance my social/love life and work life very well. In a given day I can do one, but probably not both.

It’s not that my mind gets overwhelmed, per se; it just seems that it gets filled by one or the other…something like that.

Add to this that I am a people-pleasing perfectionist and it turns out that the idea of disappointing a friend or lover by not spending time with them versus working is practically painful.

Relationships with people get me caught up in a net; tangled there, floating, I can’t seem to reach my other priorities.

fishing net

i’m all up in this and it stinks…like fish

This is embarrassing to write about.

It’s probably different things for different people, at least if you’re one of uswe who are easily distracted—who find ourselves, at times, coming out of the haze.

My distraction drug of choice seems to be people (especially non-female people), but maybe yours is alcohol, partying, exercise, video games, your job, volunteer work, etc.

All of those things, when done in reasonable amounts, are fine.

But I’m referring to them as drugs because for some of us, that’s exactly how they behave: We use them (sometimes subconsciously) as an escape from the thing we actually believe we should be doing.

Unfortunately, this isn’t a post where I have some sort of solution.

What I can say is that it seems I’ve recently come out of one of these brain fogs.

It’s always strange, this process. I find myself saying:

“But wait…where did I go?”

Yet here I am, with the fire slowly rekindling and the realization that much work awaits, and this time I’m ready to take it on.

Rather than completely sequester myself off from humans like I did over the winter, I’m going to try to bring a bit more social balance into my life with hopes that I won’t be so easily thrown off next time.

One idea I’ve toyed with for months now is that of no dating.

It’s not an idea I love…I mean, I’m in my prime over here.

Still, I’m going to attempt it. I’m going to do it because every time dating happens it’s a huuuge distraction and it ends up being…not so much?

And I have to finish this book.

Your prayers…I need them.

 


 

So what is your distraction drug of choice?

Or are you one of those people who can just get stuff done when it needs to get done?

I mean, I get it…if you have a family or other dependents, accomplishing goals (I think?) becomes a whole lot easier. You have to get that paycheck.

Oh boohoo, I’m a victim of my own leisure.

But really—maybe there’s something else you’d like to do on a creative-level or just personal passion-project type deal. How do you do it? How do you not?

Leave a comment! (oh, and subscribe by clicking here.)

Photocred: photopin.com

Love Stuff and Creative Failings (Flailings?)

Here’s the thing:

I am 100% reluctant to write this post.

I’m not blogging about love and stuff. I’m not a teenager anymore. You don’t want to see the things I was writing then.

But the subject matter? Ohhh, I’m still dealing with that.

Fine. It’s love stuff. And I’m writing about it.

But why not? Is there a creative person out there—a person out there—who doesn’t get thrown off by love or some bastardization therein?

Yes then, FINE, the opposite sex affects my creative process. It affects everything.

There. There! I’ve confessed.

I am not as strong as I like to tell myself. I am not as dedicated to my creativity and my output as I promise to be. It just does not seem to be who I fully am (for now and time precedent, at least).

 painting of guy with black eye

My hope is that I will change, that I will grow stronger. That like with any good affair, some shiny object won’t be able to step onto the scene and distract me from the healthy romance of creative pursuit.

But there is supposed to be a balance between human connection and professional pursuits, is there not?

Is it easy for those who already find themselves in established relationships? Once the tree is stable and growing, can they tend better to the rest of the land?

I ask because in the throes of new romance, how can one have any hope of preventing substantial distraction?

Am I weaker than others?

Can others do a once-weekly date and let love grow long and slowly over time? Am I the only one who suddenly sees a huge chunk of my life—my time—overtaken?

There is an importance that our society places on love and romance, and for better or worse, I have let a part of my brain be overcome.

I get addicted to the love drugs. And as with any drug, the high fades and the comedown begins.

There are times when I’m ready to write human love off completely and cloister myself while I pursue the other love—writing. That was part of the reason behind the Santa Fe isolation.

A town of retirees, perfect! 

But always, always, in the back of my mind is the question:

 

“But…will someone come along?”

 

And of course, someone comes along. They always do.

This happens, and there I go. The romantic in me takes over.

The same emotions that fill these words begin to fill the thoughts I project toward another. It’s the double-edged sword of a heart too verbose in romance.

What happens is that I seem to morph the new person into my creative project. The muse and the medium, all in one.

As you might guess, my actual creative projects begin to fall to the wayside.

So when new love eventually fails, I tend to count the hours I “wasted.” The phone calls, shared meals, daydreaming, etc. spent on the now-lost prospect.

Do you want to know how it makes me feel?

Pretty dumb.

Part of this whole process, I realize, is natural. If you want love, you have to invest time, so time will be taken away from other things.

But the question is this:

Do I want to fall in love?

Or do I simply enjoy being distracted? Having a seemingly good excuse to push aside true prospects of personal fulfillment and remuneration created by my own independent efforts?

Because if I have someone by my side, the burden isn’t so much on my shoulders.

man sitting next to his backpack

does sitting next to your burden make it a companion?

As someone who doesn’t wish to be employed by another or go through the typical career hierarchies, “love” seems a way to create my independent life as writer but not exactly have to do it all alone.

“Being in love—falling in love”—now I understand it—now I know what it means — what happens to me when I am writing: I am in love with the work, the subject, the characters, and while it goes on & a while after, the opus itself.—I function only by falling in love … What it is I suppose is the creative condition as expressed in human emotion and mood—So it comes out curiously the same whether sexual or spiritual or aesthetic or intellectual.

-Ursula K. Le Guin

Is the prospect of making it on my own simply too daunting?

Ahhh, if only society endorsed independence more than marriage. Perhaps then I could forgive and accept my blacksheep-ism.

What I’m hoping here by sitting down and exposing these messy views on love is that I can simply find the strength to turn my back on it when I know it’s not right.

That seems to be my main weakness: jumping in for the escape or the excitement or the distraction…but not necessarily the connection.

It is normal, I suppose, to feel afraid when one doesn’t follow the status quo.

Yet I’ve been kidding myself about how afraid I actually am. As my book nears completion and I stand in view of the finish line for numerous other projects, I find that my feet are stuck in the mud.

sliding rocks going for desert finish line

if i’m both the rock and the desert, where does that make the finish?

Crossing the finish line means judgment.

It means exposure.

The risk has been taken, and if I step over to the end it will be into a life where the belief behind the risk proves validated or dashed.

Of course, I don’t actually believe all this…more or less. Success will come with work and talent. That  I believe. 

I can get there.

What gets in my way is the confidence-lacking little girl inside my heart that tries so valiantly to pull on the reins to keep me from getting rejected.

On Bravery: An Interlude 

A little bird in the newspaper postbox has made herself a nest within.

It’s a great home: sturdy green plastic siding, a single entry point, too small for birds of prey.

picture of a mailbox with mountains in background

True story: this is the mailbox, and this is the home.

Still, there are the humans who come for the mail.

As I reach out the car window to the mailbox beside her future family’s home, she bounces up to the edge of her land and begins angrily tweeting not only at me, but at the gargantuan machine in which I sit.

Taking wing, she lunges at me. This bird no larger than a eight-year-old’s fist is ready to take on a human in a car.

And I’m afraid to finish my book.

 


 

So where do you stand? What’s your weakness?

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Lookbacks From a Blogger

The thing about having this blog is that amidst all the reward of feeling like I am connecting with you (yes, you!) and “finding my voice” and all that is that I am also unable to avoid the painful discrepancies in my work tendencies.

The history of my habits is written out here for all of us to see.

I’m exposed, and I cannot run from evidence.

So…I really kind of feel like a f*ck up.

aftermath of a car backing into a brick wall

When I decided to become a writer, it was like being handed a lovely and colorful patchwork quilt. The sweet kind that you find in your grandmother’s guest bedroom.

It was rolled up tightly and bound with a with a shiny ribbon bow-tied with various hues of red.

I took this quilt and knew that it would be mine. It would cover me, keep me warm when the winds got rough. Be worn as a cape if I needed to fight.

But first I would have to untie and unroll it.

Turns out I couldn’t just grab two edges and throw it out into the sky to watch it unfurl. Turns out I couldn’t do it because the quilt has little pockets sewn upon its face and the contents would be thrown out along with it.

And these pockets are taking time to explore.

So I lay the quilt down and roll it out. One rotation and a whole column of patchwork pockets waiting there to surprise me with what’s inside.

colorful patchwork quilt

That it wasn’t a plain and simple quilt has been surprise enough.

A quilt with secrets? This is more than I expected.

And in the beginning days, the pure adrenaline of my new warmth was enough to keep me digging around and seeing what was in store.

Each pocket held some new idea. A short story, a blog post, a podcast idea, a new novel, an interview, an offshoot for my book.

Something about the energy of that time of beginnings kept me motivated and excited without exhaustion.

There were days spent devoted to this craft of writing because I grasped the newness of what was at hand and all the opportunity therein.

We all know that ignorance is bliss.

blindfolded woman

I was blissfully, blindingly ignorant of how long everything would take.

Caught up in the whirlwind of a million new ideas and the bliss at starting off on a life path that I know is right for me, I was able to ignore for several months the fact that things just don’t always happen as quickly as one would like.

The slowness of things is magnified, of course, if your method is not one of speed. And mine is not.

Instead I incorporate bits of the distant dream of retirement into daily waking life. Days of work separated by a trip to a different city, a few days of too much time in the kitchen, a tray of oysters…twice, an exploration of a new love.

When I came to Santa Fe, I was worn down from a life all-too social lived in Los Angeles. I had words to write and a book to finish.

bike trail santa fe rail trail

yeah, tell me about it.

Over two months were passed here in relative ease and solitude, but then came a fatal housesitting trip to Texas.

I was reminded of people. Of young people and a young life and enjoyment of brains and smiles that could interact with me face to face in real time.  

Thrown off track, I now realize that it’s time to move on from Santa Fe and the solitude inherent and take the next step toward a future that has for months now been quite hidden from any psychic prowess on my part.

When I get in these states of wanting to move on but knowing that, for the meanwhile, I am stuck, the child inside me starts stomping her feet.

She wants out, she’s bored, she needs new stimulation…

So I’m calling on my adult. The adult that wants to see my book finished within two months. The adult who really does love isolation (in bursts) and reading Lord of the Rings until she falls asleep.

I’m reminding myself that Nelson Mandela for twenty-five years was bound to a jail cell and the bleak promise of a heart full of dreams and passion that would never be fulfilled.

nelson mandela jail cell

A view of the cell were former South African president Nelson Mandela was locked up by the former apartheid government on Robben Island, South Africa, Friday, July 17, 2009. Mandela will celebrate his 91st birthday on Saturday. (AP Photo/Schalk van Zuydam)

And all the while, with no reason for hope, he exercised, he tended a garden, he wrote, he worked, and he kept the faith.

Of course, I cannot hope to be a man made of such stuff as Mr. Mandela.

(I can hope to be a man, though. Thanks, science!)

At any rate, if a man bursting with the dreams of Mandela can sit in a cell and still find the drive and ambition to take care of himself and hope for a brighter future, I sure as hell can do a better job of life right now.

So…here we go.

 


 

Now tell me, how the heck have you been? I missed you last week.

 

Give me advice, leave me your thoughts, and sign up so that you won’t miss a post…click here, darling!

 

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On the Anatomy of Feeling

Not with all the words in the world can we do ourselves justice.

Not with a sentence or a talk or a video or a book can we do feelings that fill us any honorable service.

How did I get here this morning?

I couldn’t hear my thoughts.

And I try to write them and bring myself to a place of sanity (don’t worry, I’m fine, I’m sane) and all I’m given are words.

Words to represent feelings when all feelings want to do is represent themselves.

scribbles overlayed on a nature scene

How do we feel feelings, I ask?

It is a squeaking hamster wheel in the right-most pit of my stomach. A grey lump in the lower part of my throat. Elbows that wish to float. Ears that burn or sparkle.

Anatomical hieroglyphics to which we try to attach words.

Things born in the body of their own volition (and under collusion with none other than our very own selves) we attempt to interpret, analyze, paste a formulaic meaning.

I don’t want to feel things sometimes (oftentimes) because my position as a writer makes this an especially burdensome task.

See, I want to attach words to everything.

I want a narrative written in my mind to account for the non-narrative events taking place throughout my body and…it is simply a thing that cannot be done.

This brings me to a wall, an impasse, between myself and myself.

black and white wall with small zebra hieroglyphic

And this brings us to now.

To the fact that there’s not much I can do but throw some pebbles at that space where wall meets ground and turn away to walk in a different direction.

I’m feeling a little dramatic this morning, have you noticed?

I blame it on Valgeir Sigurðsson.

And can’t I?

 


 

Talk to me, leave a comment!

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Weekend Roundup: Self-Promotion Edition (kind of)

There is something about this living in isolation…

I don’t know what it all means yet, but I know it’s right for me at the moment.

How do I know? I don’t know.

It just feels right.

You get what I’m saying?

No. Of course not, because that was all just meandering, vague stream-of-consciousness babble.

Moving right along…

solitude man walking by a smooth stream

stream…solitude…consciousness…Know what I’m saying? No? That’s cool.

This past week was a strange one. I had a couple experiences in which I was exposed to other people my age.

To most of you, being exposed to others in one’s age range may not serve as justification for a strange week, but honestly, most of my experiences out in Santa Fe have consisted of me and other people at least 15-30 years my senior.

I haven’t minded. It’s been nice, in a way. There’s a lot less inner drama when you completely remove feelings of sexuality or peer competition.

Yet the fact remains, it’s nice to be around people my age sometimes.

I went to a Jiu Jitsu class and the next day found myself at a coffee shop which apparently is the coffee shop in Santa Fe where people go if they’re under 40.

(p.s. I do love 40+ year olds.)

And there was this strange outcome of being merely exposed to other “youngsters”—it made me want more of them.

So much so, in fact, that I returned home honestly considering that maybe I should close myself off to such experiences. Perhaps the ease of isolation is preferable to the longing of camaraderie.

camaredie group at a sports event

There’s camaraderie and then there’s me, the guy in the red hat. Except I am eating tortilla chips.

But I cannot try to be so controlling of my actions and outcomes. It ain’t healthy.

The fact is: jiu jitsu was fun, and I will return, and the coffee shop was clearly the coolest in town, so I will return there too.

Just kidding (I think). The coffee shop was actually too cool for me and honestly I am not okay with paying $3.25 for a tea.

It’s an issue of principle, folks.

The other weird thing about this week is that I had very alternating days of productivity and I’m not sure to what I can attribute that.

Clearly, I was doing something different with the whole “talking to people” thing, but was it only that which threw me off, or was it something more primal like diet or just random hormonal things?

This, I suppose, is part of the discovery I’m undergoing with the monkish life of the creative quest and all that.

All that being said, I’ll mention that I did get some work accomplished this week.

Part of that work was eating over half a bag of tortilla chips today alone, but who’s counting…right?

RIGHT!??

lots of tortilla chips

I don’t at all believe this picture belongs in this blog but mmmmm…tortilla chips…

Anyway, this weekend’s roundup has some Twitter influence, because if you’ve been following my research on useful writer tools, Twitter seems to play an important role.

But it also has some amplified methods for productivity time tracking and self-discipline, some thoughts on bubbles, and a quote that should strike you right in that red beating heart.

So let’s get to it!

The Weekend Roundup: Self-Promotion Edition

1. Crowdfire

2. Marinara

3. Switching it Up

4. Sodastream

5. Quote (that you need)

1. Crowdfire

In my evil premeditative ways, I’ve taken the advice of many authors and worked on establishing a Twitter presence and followers. I like the way SocialQuaint sums up Twitter for authors here.

It boils down to this: Twitter is free marketing.

By the time my book is published, I’ma need that.

Turns out, though, that I’m kind of enjoying connecting with people and making stupid comments and just voicing whatever weird thoughts I have. In fact, can you go follow my Twitter RoadWritten account now?

My technique has been to follow about 50 new people a day, and of those, a nice handful tend to follow me back and I’m seeing steady growth in my Twitter followers.

But I don’t want to be that person who follows one billion people and is only being followed by 300, and I don’t have to be, thanks to technology.

There are several tools to unfollow people who aren’t following you, and I went with Crowdfire to remove unfollowers.

It shows them in a chronological list beginning with who has not been following me for the longest amount of time.

Then I just click away and start unfollowing people to get my ratio of following to to followers to a difference of about 150.

Don’t be that aggressive follower and don’t give without gettin something backuse Crowdfire.

 

2. Marinara

Far be it from me to make marinara sauce one of the week’s highlights, but in truth, this is actually another dashboard productivity timer I’ve been trying out.

person with hand in marinara sauce

Again, is this a food blog or something? I will have to say that this picture is a pretty accurate representation of my mind.

I mentioned the Forest App Chrome extension in a previous roundup, but I like the Marinara Pomodoro Timer much more.

Unfortunately it doesn’t have a little (fake) forest I get to watch grow based on my progress, but it does have many more options to make it the most useful productivity timer I’ve yet tried.

For one, it has a sound and popup when my time is up, which is a duh thing, but Forest didn’t have it.

I click a little icon up by my browser bar, set my timer for 30 minutes and take five minute breaks in-between. Though I prefer to work for longer bursts, I believe it’s healthier for the body to stand up at least every 30 minutes and do some stretching.

I want to be a writer, not a hunchback.

The complaint I have is that it doesn’t block me from visiting other websites like Facebook during the work sessions, so I might have to try yet another (send suggestions my way in the comments!)

Anyway, if you are looking for a way to stay focused on the computer, try Marinara: Pomodoro Timer and tell me if it worked for you.

 

3. Switching it Up

There is power in routine and habit.

In fact, the necessity of pattern is imbedded in us, and if we don’t take control of habitual tendencies, undesirable ones will take control of us.

That being said, I am a very restless and distractible student of habit.

Eventually, I give up on routines if for nothing more than to be disruptive.

There is something to be said for this, though. It’s important to test and quit (even if temporarily) the things we try in order to see if they’re really working.

For the past couple weeks I fell off my morning meditation. Maybe there was some unconscious self-punishment going on, or maybe I just was just trying to see if it really mattered to me.

So I switched it up.

And let me tell you:

I am meditating again.

woman meditation on a mountaintop

No, this is not me and no, I’m not so formal as this. But you get the idea, eh?

There was no double-blind study and I cannot establish an inarguably causal relationship, but last week was not good.

Here be dragons.

There was anger and anguish and I’m not sure what all was causing it but I am sure that I wasn’t meditating. Once I began doing it again, peace waltzed right back into my psyche and my abandoned practice welcomed me back with open arms.

So try things, quit them, and pay attention to what happens next.

 

4. Sodastream

Yeah yeah this is kind of random to talk about in a blog about creativity, but you know what?

Whatever.

If you’re like me, you spend all day alone working on your craft and by the end of the day you need some excitement.

You know what is exciting?

Water with bubbles.

If you’re also like me, you’re slowing chipping away at your savings and battling desperately the anxiety of running quite completely out of money in the pursuit of a dream that is making zero promises.

So no, I can’t afford enough La Croix to sate my desire for fizz. I mean, I could—technically—but it’s just not in the budget.

A sodastream gives you bubbles, cheaper.

bubbly glass of sodastream water

Bubbles: you either get it or you don’t.

AND it is more sustainable because, you know, no cans. And no plastic 6-pack rings nor cardboard 12-packs.

Yes, you may recycle them. But do you know what? Recycling and creation takes energy and energy takes oil and waste is waste blah blah blah.

 

5. And I Quoth

But let’s move from the frivolity of bubbles to something deep, y’all.

This week I read a quote in my super cheesily-titled book of morning readings that hit home.

I don’t consider myself a terribly unconfident person, but when it comes to my creative pursuits I am definitely a bit sub-par. Low grades also in the love/relationships department, but I’ll save that for my shrink.

At any rate, I’m just going to leave this quote here:

 

“One of the sad implications of low self-esteem is that in devaluing who and what we are we also devalue what we have to give.”

 

And I’ll add this little reminder:

People want what you have.

 


 

And there we have it!

Hopefully you found some sort of useful nugget in there and if not, Jesus, throw me a bone. Leave me a comment with what you wish I would have mentioned.

Or just leave me a comment. Like I said, I’m pretty alone out here.

On that note, if you liked this, show the love—sign up to follow, will ya?

Photocred: photopin.com

When History Fails You: Keep the Faith

Very truly the most difficult part of this creative pursuit is not the creativity itself.

It’s not finding moments to work or ideas to explore. It’s not fighting procrastination.

It’s keeping the faith.

I’m not a religious person, but I grasp what the whole faith thing is…

It’s believing in a thing for which there’s no proof.

Income?

That’s proof that you do work worth some tangible form of payment.

In my case, it’s keeping the faith that taking all this time, wearing down my savings, and filling my hours with this writing thing is going to pay off.

fortune teller telling future faith

The bulk of my current work gets no recognition. Being in-progress, it’s not even in a position where it could be recognized.

Undoubtedly I’ve internalized some cultural idea of needing consistent payment as a form of self-validation.

If only I had gone to a liberal arts school, I say. If only my parents had been hippie artists and named me Amethyst. If only I’d been the star student in 7th-grade art.

If only I’d internalized the idea that taking time to create something is okay.

Instead, the idea recognized as truth for my entire adult life (until about eight months ago) is that if I’m not gainfully employed, I’m failing somehow.

I grew up exposed to the type of talk where if it’s mentioned that so-and-so doesn’t have a job, it’s with a raised eyebrow.

If so-and-so the artist is mentioned, there may well be quotation marks around the artist part.

Maybe I was even the giver of the air quotes. I rejected the idea of a creative lifestyle because I wasn’t ready to acknowledge the desire within or the prospect of success for myself.

It was too risky.

Anyway, I still don’t quite like the term artist; I’m a craftswoman.

craftswoman tool rack

just imagine pens here. And notebooks. And a computer + keyboard…

But it’s bonkers, really—this income/validation thing. There’s no logic behind it. I earned money before I took this “sabbatical” for creativity. Previous payment is why I’m able to do this right now.

Now that I’m here, though, I have this past wage-earner’s mentality that’s proving to be a real behemoth to overcome.

Logically, if we’re talking about getting some amount of money all-at-once versus having it paid out weekly or monthly, it is the same amount.

Let me be happy with the lump sum. Why does this fallacious thinking around absence of recurring payment chip away at my contentment?

The fact is, I’m finishing a book and trying to get started on a lot of other self-made endeavors.

Pressuring myself to get it done faster or better or whatever is pointless. There is no standard amount of time it takes, especially when it’s one’s first time.

And it’s not just my first book, it’s my first time ever allowing myself to pursue creative stuff.

So hopefully all this boohoo is just growing pains.

I imagine a future of sitting on chaise lounges and allowing myself the freedom to read and write and enjoy the day without any guilt.

chaise lounge sofa

is this even a chaise lounge? At any rate, it’s the thing I want.

The irony is that all this lack of income (and the work I do in the meantime) ideally will lead me to earn the most fulfilling income of my life.

Fulfilling does not equal bountiful, but that would be nice too.

It’s a marathon, not a sprint.

No matter how I pressure myself to get things done quickly in order to start making money, it’s just going to take the amount of time it takes.

If I can’t keep up the faith in myself during this process, I can’t expect it from anybody else.

 


 

Thoughts? What would you consider your creative “realm”?

How do you keep the faith?

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photocred: photopin.com