Since DH has gone away to work, life has been a little overwhelming. For the first time in YEARS, I’m not writing every day. This, in turn, makes me depressed. And being depressed makes it SO MUCH harder to get out of the house and go writing the next day.
Of course, missing DH might be a part of why I’m depresesd. And I seem to be battling a serious flare-up of fibromyalgia (after years, and I mean years!), which is boggling my mind because I don’t know where it’s coming from. And so I don’t know how to fix it.
In the back of my mind, I find this a tad ridiculous. I find it silly that I have to do these little things to get myself writing while DH is gone. I’ve always prided myself on sitting down every day and getting the job done, no problem.
When I sit down and write, I love it. It’s like I can breathe again, and I wonder what the heck had me procrastinating for days. And I love the story I’m working on. It’s going great. It’s coming out easy so far.
So why all the trouble? Why am I still here, at home, instead of at Borders right now writing?
Sometimes we judge our enthusiasm, our "meant to," our motivation and desire and the whole kit and kaboodle by our discipline to sit down, or our discipline to grind through the challenges.
That, I believe, is hogwash. I know I’m motivated and meant to and enthusiastic and all that stuff. Without a single doubt in my mind. So why, then, am I here and not writing?
Oh well. I thought, when I sat down and started this blog post, I would have a conclusion. Or at least some tidbit of motivation, or something. But I don’t. No answers, no conclusions.
And anyway, I have to get to Borders and write a little something, see if I can salvage the day.
As Erica says, thoughts?