The Bottom Before the Top

The bad news is, making time for one thing mean something else has to be left behind or forgotten completely. This may be news to you, but there are only so many hours in the day. And one can only do so many things in the too few 24 hours we are given. When I first started writing this, I thought it was going to turn in to a zen-like think-piece on how we all just need to slow down and appreciate shit. But for real, I can only do so much whilst staying insane. That wasn’t a typo.
I’m not saying being crazy is a life goal or anything. Being less stressed is something I definitely aspire to, but I don’t mind the idea of being somewhat…off. If I wanted to be normal I could be. I think I’ve made enough decisions to indicate I steer away from normal and gravitate toward something else. Insert gif of Seinfeld shouting, “not that there’s anything wrong with that!” That being normal.
Being normal has its appeal. It seems easy. Is it? I don’t know. Perhaps more stable, predictable. Those things I like. Fluctuation and the unknown aren’t my favorite, so I can see why people would choose a lifestyle that helps decrease both. I can’t seem to do that for some reason. Writing is perhaps the poster-child of stepping into the unsure. There are no guarantees. You can work for years and no one may ever read, let alone pay for, your work. Yoga is similar. You can be passionate, capable, and amazing. None of that means you can make a living on teaching. These are careers—that doesn’t seem like the right word, way of life maybe?—that require something else. And I’m not talking about the freedom to decide your schedule and having to file 1099s. That is just an added bonus.
No. What I’m talking about is the oft heard phrase, “I really couldn’t see myself doing anything else.” I mean if I had to, sure. But I’m fortunate at this stage that I get to try to do things. I get frustrated with both at times for their ROI. I admit it. And I don’t even get paid for writing. (I know, right?)
This brings me back to my initial point, and something I’ve mentioned before. I don’t have a ton of free time. I’ve decided to put more of an emphasis on writing. I want to take it more seriously. That means other things fall to the wayside. This is a sad truth that cannot be avoided. Before, I would chide and berate myself for not doing more, more, more. As if raising a kid and everyone making through they day unscathed wasn’t enough. But I don’t want to do that anymore. It would just add another thing to my to-do list. And frankly, I’m all tapped out. I don’t really like to half-ass things, but that’s what I tend to do when I attempt to cram everything in. Or I just quit.
But enough whining. I went to my writing group on Monday and brought a section from my novel. My dear, dear novel I refuse to let die. Most of the remarks and comments were positive, which inflates my ego and adds to my delusions. I think I feed off of both. But there was also that look in their collective eye of wondering where it was all going to lead. “I loved your first chapter,” they said, “but in this one, the story seems to fall a little flat.” GOD DAMNIT.
Since writing the darn thing in November of 2013, I keep telling myself that the story, the STORY, is my main character. Without her, there is nothing. Without her, there is no hope. Now is when this post is going to turn into a navel-gazing, new-agey reflection. I don’t have a story. I mean I do, everyone does. But I don’t know how to string all of my life experiences, failures, successes, and deviations into a fluid and consistent narrative. It all feels so segregated. Which is silly because I have most certainly been there front and center for each and every joyful moment and each and every heart-wrenching blow. Yet there is disconnect. So how can I expect to create something cohesive for someone else when I can’t even do that for myself? Even if I am making it all up? It’s almost harder this way. So I just have to keep writing. That’s they only way it will happen.