Words From a Smart Man

I started off the year fully intending to immediately get back to a regular schedule. Regular blog posts, daily writing, being responsible and super awesome, the whole shebang. Unfortunately, however, things didn't exactly go as planned. Despite small bursts of inspiration and desire to write pretty words, I've been crippled by insecurities and even anxiety.

I used to write constantly, and thinking about how much that's changed is something that hurts me a lot. It makes me want to get going again just to prove that I still can, but then I get stopped in my tracks by the overwhelming panic that comes at night when you're surrounded with nothing but darkness and your own insecurities. Over the past few months I've written, but never much at a time. No matter how much I tell myself to put my butt in the chair and produce words, I can't. No matter how much I post about fresh starts, I can't make that fresh start happen. I've lost count of how many times I've deleted this blog's archives to start over, hoping that this time I can make it all work out.

What right do I have to take time away from my real-world responsibilities to play with imaginary friends? Where do I get off playing pretend when there are dishes to do, carpets to vacuum, bills to pay, a husband to feed? What's the point in wasting my time when my stories won't go anywhere; when the chances of making it big are so minuscule?

I might have continued being mired in those bleak thoughts for weeks, months, years longer if it weren't for my husband. We had a long talk late at night, when I was firmly in the grasp of the strongest insecurities, and he said something that was akin to the slap in the face that brings a person in hysterics back to the present.

"If there's something you enjoy, you owe it to yourself to do that thing."

Gods bless that man and his ability to help me break through my insecurities. It's a simple statement, but it gets down to the base of my problem. I don't need reassurances that I'm a great writer, because I know damn well some of my words are shoddy. I don't need insistence that I'll get published someday, because that's not my primary goal. I don't need somebody to tell me my stories are good, because I don't write for them and their enjoyment, if it exists, is a happy accident.

What I needed, and what I think everyone needs from time to time, is reassurance that it's okay to have fun and spend time doing things you enjoy. You can't blow off your responsibilities, but you can't kill yourself stressing over everything and forget to actually enjoy things every once in a while. It may seem like such an obvious thing, but sometimes it's so hard to let myself get immersed in a time-consuming hobby that doesn't have an obvious payout. My crafts I can sell or give as gifts; there's practical sides to that. Video games can be interrupted with little notice. All of my other hobbies have some practical aspect or can be set to the side easily when responsibilities rear their ugly heads.

Writing, though...writing is time-consuming, writing doesn't have immediate payouts (if ever), and writing is hard to break away from when you're in the middle of a scene. It's something that's deeply personal and a bit indulgent, and for so long now I've been wrapped up in analyzing every little thing I do that any hobbies that are more than superficial have fallen to the absolute bottom of my to-do lists and have all but dropped of the radar completely.

January may be half-over, but it's not too late to set New Year's goals and resolutions. Hell, it's never too late to set goals and resolutions. Every day is a new one, and today I intend to roll up my sleeves, kick out the last remnants of the insecurities that have kept me from playing with words, and actually write. 

I enjoy writing, and I owe it to myself to spend some time telling stories, free of stress and free of questions about the practicality of scribbling rough drafts in a tattered notebook. It's my time to shine.

Until next time,
J.