Impossiblilities

 It isn't that I have nothing to write about. I do. There are days I sit down with my mind full of the story, only to find that I can't focus. My mind is full of a fog that wraps my brain in a soup like mist, an alphabet soup that refuses to form coherent sentences. Thoughts are there in my mind, but I'm unable to structure into any coherence. Random thoughts interrupt every attempt; did I start the laundry or miss my meds? Did I have an appointment? I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open. 

No matter how many times I try again, the results are almost always the same. On the days I write 200 words, it feels like a weight is lifted. It doesn't last.

So, I've basically given up. I'm running out of time to finish anything. That's an awful feeling. To see the ending but cannot reach it is hell. You don't stop, but the effort exerted is enormous. You walk away, realizing you're a failure.

I don't know where I go from here. I keep trying but it just feels so hopeless. The things that have happened since 2009 have been just unbelievable. Not just Jerry dying and my getting sicker. There is so much else that has happened I don't dare go into here. I'm tired of battling giants. I'm so over everything. 

I won't stop trying to write, to finish at least one of the several stories. In theory, it isn't impossible. Well, nothing is impossible. Is it?

Until It Wasn't

Adventures and laughter set our days glowing

Love built a home and filled it with companions

Life was good and filled with purpose

Until it wasn’t.

Silver wings carried us to exotic lands 

And strange tongues sang in our ears 

Soaring mountains beckoned and

Broad streets whose lights banished the dark

Couples walking together, arms linked and hearts.

Until it wasn’t.

We grew up, moved on, and dreamed of the future

Planning and building and singing our songs

Children, grandchildren, our family expanding

Bright days glowing, banishing the dark,

We walked together, arms linked and hearts.

Until it wasn’t.

Adventures and laughter set our days glowing

Love built a home and filled it with companions

Life was good and filled with purpose

Until it wasn’t. 

 

365 Days to Write or Not

It hasn't been a great writing year. I've written more than I expected to but not as much as I wanted to. I've been sick more and of course, we've all had to deal with Covid in one way or another. 

I had Covid in October 2019 and Sarah's mom just had it this past week. I've been taking care of her. And no, I haven't caught it. But I may have had it several weeks ago when I thought I had a severe cold. Who knows these days. 

Anyway, writing. Today is the first day of a new year and if I can write one page every day for 365 days, that's pretty much a novel. An average page is 250 words! So maybe do 500 words a day for 365 days? 182,500!?? That's two novels. 

I don't do resolutions. They're lies in fancy dress, as I've pointed out in a blog post somewhere. I am going to shoot for 500 words a day. I know I won't get that much done on some days but if I do even half that, it is a lot of words.

Have a happy new year and may the words flow from your brain and out your fingers. 

Through My Veins

For three days now, I've been writing. Not new writing, but I've been editing and revising. 

On Wednesday, I suddenly opened one of my unfinished manuscripts and started working toward finishing it. This book is the closest to being a finished draft of all 9 of my manuscripts. I have a couple of others that almost as close. If I can get this edit done and fill in any holes, I can start a real edit. 

The process feels great, but I'm battling pain, fatigue, and depression. Typical day for me. 

But I'm working. Writing. I'm tired of not being able to think or use my hands. I know there's dictation, but it isn't the same. I've tried it a few times and I still have to use a keyboard to edit. And it is so slow. 

I remember when I was 11 and started writing. I loved using my pen and scratching those words onto paper. I didn't own a typewriter and couldn't have used it if I did. They hadn't invented computers yet. Pen or pencil were the only way to write. 

When I moved to the typewriter, I had to relearn to write because there is something visceral about using pen and paper. They're an extension to your body when you write. What you think pours out onto the paper through a pen. The way blood flows through my veins. I learned to type, and the words flowed out at 70 words per minute. 

Then, I got a computer when I was in my mid-20s. The pen and paper fell by way, to be used only for notes or when I had no access to the computer. Doing NaNoWriMo I learned to write faster and at last count, in NaNo alone I'd written over 465,712 words over 11 years! It's ridiculous to not have a finished novel to show for all that. 

I haven't given up, even though it feels I'm running out of time. This week I'm trying to make headway. I can tell that the longer I'm at it, the more I want to do, but my body has betrayed me so long. My neck hurts badly as I finish this post. My back hurts. My hands have hurt for days and a couple of fingers are reaching the end of their lifespan, I think. The pain of not finishing is worse. 

Living in a Mental & Social Drought

 I don't want to admit it but I've done so little writing in the last year that you could probably count the page totals on your hands. It is so stressful!

No matter how many deadlines I set, how much I commit to writing, I don't get it done. That sets the tone for my day. I worry I'm wasting time. I tell myself it is important to no one but me. Obviously that's not true. I don't even appear to care!

More than once in recent months, I've thought about whether I should just give up. Toss it all out, clean out the computer, shred my files and give up. How do you do that? The very idea sounds insane. If I did that, the aftermath would be a disaster. 

There is some encouragement when I read that writers around the world are dealing with a similar issue. Isolation destroys creativity. Looks like socializing, real socializing, is critical to creativity after all. All those stories of writers and painters suffering in garrets for their art aren't exactly accurate. We have to have visual and mental stimulation that isn't focused on the end of the world day in and day out. We need to have conversations that provoke thought and generate ideas. We require human interaction to stimulate our synapses and send a current of impressions, feelings, thoughts, and emotions through our bodies. We have to experience life to create art.

So, I'm not alone is this dry spell, apparently. I wonder if they'll have interventions and workshops to jumpstart us?

If I can just get my body not to hurt and my brain to cooperate by generating clarity, I might make progress. I wouldn't need an intervention.