I am kind of overwhelmed with feelings right now and I’m not really sure where it’s coming from. Well, I probably do. I’m coming off the busiest week I’ve had at work since I started. I love that I’ve been given more responsibilities but geez, the adjustment period is pretty rough. Plus, there was a mistake with my health insurance (our rep at the insurance place didn’t process my paperwork – THANKS, PERSON) and my paycheck, which is making things kind of tight until I get the rest of my paycheck in the mail. It was supposed to come Thursday. And then yesterday. But no. Ugh. I was planning to use that money for our Giants weekend in September and then the rest for, you know, life during the month. So it’s just kind of hard to wait, especially since I don’t know how much will be in the check.
Thursday night was weird because Electric Girl was hanging out with a friend, and hanging out turned into a stay-over, and I didn’t hear from her on Friday until early afternoon and since I am a worrier*, I was stressed until that moment. SO ANYWAY. Here we are now, on Saturday morning, and I’m listening to the same Bon Iver song over and over and over again. Except I just put on a playlist, which is called “Tiny Vessels Transatlanticism” and it’s exactly what you think it is: Tiny Vessels and Transatlanticism. On repeat. I’m weird about music okay? Deal with it.
What I’m trying to do by listening to these songs over and over is spark some inspiration. I don’t talk too much about writing anymore because I’ve fallen off doing it and when I do try, I get really discouraged and frustrated because I SUCK SO BADLY AT IT. I don’t suck so badly that I should give up completely, and I’ve never been a person to write for other people’s enjoyment. This is all about me. It always has been. I’m not shy about admitting that. If I’m the only person who reads my stuff** that is just fine with me. I don’t write to make money and people who do write to make money are a) delusional because there is not money in writing sorry, and b) hacks. And I’m not talking about freelance writers who write articles and stuff. I have no problem with that, and I wouldn’t mind getting in on that action. That’s writing that can pay. But writing fiction? That stuff can’t be inspired by money. It’s something deeper than that. The place where the words come from is too far down in you to be touched by anything like monetary benefit or recognition. Of course we want people to like us and what we write because it makes us feel like we aren’t wasting our time, but even if they didn’t, what matters most is how YOU feel about what you’ve written. You’re going to be your harshest critic but at the end of the day, you’re putting those words on paper because you can’t do anything else. It’s a drive. It’s something you can’t really control.
I lost most of that drive a long time ago and I’m always trying to get it back. I still feel like I can’t breathe when the words don’t come and I still feel like my life lacks meaning and purpose if I can’t get something out. It’s part of why I blog and part of why I sit around listening to the same songs over and over again. Eventually something will break and words will leak out. You just have to be patient.
I’m bad at being patient.
So this blog post wasn’t really supposed to be about writing. It really wasn’t going to be about anything because I plan my blogs like I plan my stories: NOT AT ALL. So I’m going to stop writing before I ramble on for another five minutes about how our washing machine sounds like a jetliner taking off when it’s in the spin cycle.
*Also there’s a lot to our friendship that I haven’t even gotten to divulge on this blog yet, even though a lot of people reading it know the circumstances already
**And by ‘only person’, I mean Electric Girl also gets to read what I write. It’s her toll for living with my writing-related meltdowns