Last week I felt a lot of certainty. I was going to rewrite my NaNoWriMo 2022 novella, and I was going to finish it.
But, for the past week, it's not been touched. Granted, we had a heatwave and my body just doesn't do heatwaves, but I know that even with the heat, I wouldn't have been able to.
And I was pondering why I couldn't.
Admitting the answer to myself was harder than I cared to admit: I don't want to be?
I've had a couple of very hard years since 2018, with a lot of chronic pain and then the pandemic forcing me to isolate myself most of the time.
It left a mark on me (understatement) and maybe that mark killed my creative writing?
Or maybe I let it?
Maybe I should trust I haven't fully embraced yet, what this wound means for my writing. What new depths I can delve from?
I'm going to travel next week, and during that week I want to inject my life with as much joy as I possibly can. Because I can. And after I get home, and our normal life resumes, I have an appointment with myself in my office at 9:30 in the morning.
And I will work on whatever calls my name, even if it's only writing a blog post.
Because, as I once wrote in a blog post, years ago: any writing is writing. Words don't need to fit in a certain genre or with a certain project to be valuable to you.
Any writing is writing. And if I don't write another long form project like a novella or novel in my life? I will write. I will create.
I will be.
