I’ve felt another writer’s block start to creep up on me over the past week. Life has been going pretty well: my novel grows in spurts, when I can find the time and energy to get up in the small hours of the a.m. to add to it. I am a morning creative, and since my day job starts at seven, I have to get out of bed extremely early to catch that good energy. Blessings in the form of new ideas for big stories have graced me with their inspiring favor. But, I’ve also been feeling fear along with the inspiration.
The library has been good for me. We have a nice one in the suburb where I reside. It’s not massive and beautiful like the Chicago library, but also it doesn’t need security guards nor does it smell like piss. I’ve found books there to help me with the more technical aspects of the art. This is quelling the apprehension a bit, but I am still finding it difficult to polish off my characters and scenes. In me is a terrible habit of writing all of my stories in the past tense, and the different perspectives are challenging concepts for me.
Besides the stress I am creating for myself with this wild dream of being a writer, life is pretty grand. My only other issue is that I don’t have the kind of funds to keep up the kind of hobbies I would like to, but that’s a pretty common complaint among the underclass, to be sure. Sometimes the issue is not so much the money, but that I don’t want to experience the activity alone. I’ve lived plenty of life alone… I want someone to share my observations with. You would think that since I have a boyfriend, this might not be such an out of reach idea. Sadly, he doesn’t like to do some of the things I do, especially any activities that are outside of the house. He’s great to live with, and I can get him to go out to eat, or maybe see a movie, but unless it’s something well within the confines of his interests, he’s content to stay sitting at his computer. I could throw a fit and guilt him into say, attending a jazz festival, but why would I torture him like that?
No, it is not fair for me to rely on him for all of my socialization. What I need are some friends. Unfortunately, I have alienated my more healthy friends and consciously distanced myself from the less healthy ones. I don’t know if the idea of making new friends is more or less scary than the idea of writing novels.
Beyond all of this, I am trying to find happiness is the life that I have lived, and in the quiet predictability of the life I have in front of me. I didn’t know that I was evading reality all of those years, and I am still learning, or maybe deciding, what reality is.