I like this kid.
~ Tolerate less clutter
~ Dress up sometimes
~ Be less weak and flabby
~ Cook meat! Cook it well!
~ Read 50 books
~ Invite friends over more often
~ Talk less about writing
~ Do more actual writing
~ Think less about having fun
~ Think more about doing better, about being better
~ Get rid of this cold. Get rid of this cold for good. Get rid of this cold with such passionate fiery finality that it doesn’t come back for the rest of the winter.
I write here when there is a certain quiet of mind allowing for coherent flow of thought. When this quiet is lacking, I scrawl angry, weepy complaints elsewhere or cease writing altogether to brood like any dark-haired, dark-pasted male hero in a romance novel. And then, eventually, I start writing again, as if the break was a vacation of sorts – a planned moment of silence in the music of life.
Mostly, though, writing breaks happen when life becomes so full of clutter and change and people that something has to give, or when another kind of writing (mainly novel-concerns) makes such obnoxious demands I’m forced to push other kinds off to the side. Sometimes, it’s both, and when that happens, I avoid my online presence like the plague, because, meager as it is, it feels like yet another person I have to talk to, and I’m not good with talking to people.
Some of the greatest non-life-threatening stresses on the human mind involve changing martial status, getting a new job, and moving. At least, I think I read something about that during my college Wellness class, but my brain is so untrustworthy right now I can’t even keep track of important receipts or tax-related documents, and have to pay my bills early so I don’t forget about them completely. All of the upcoming change is good change: I’m looking forward to marrying the Random Boy – er – Fiance, and moving into a house of our own, and getting a job that’s not service training at Steak ‘n Shake, however pleasant my memories will be. But just because a change is good doesn’t mean it’s easy, especially for a personality type like mine, which tends to curl up in a ball and cry uncontrollably when the old ways vanish.
“It’s all your fault!” I screech at the Fiance, who merely looks confused.
“What’s all my fault?”
“You’ve ruined everything!” (Storming away, slamming doors.)
I got as used to hysterical breakdowns as a person can get during my college years, when everything terrified me and crying was a daily ritual like yoga or morning prayers. But, as college became a regular old thing and then as post-college life was adjusted to with relatively little screaming bloody panic, I’m afraid I’ve gotten used to being happy.
Living with stress – the packing, the job-hunting, the wedding preparations, the marriage preparations, the house-shopping (which is somehow even worse than clothes-shopping) – with the strange empty of the calendar past May 15th, has taken a lot more energy than I at first imagined. This is fine, all fine, as I tell everyone who asks how I’m doing.
“Fine, fine: everything’s fine. It’s all fine.”
It’s a great word. Perfect for conveying that things are not bad, but are still somehow a long lonely ways away from what can be called good.
Rather like my writing . . .
Today, the sun came out. And few customers appeared for breakfast at my little Steak ‘n Shake kingdom. And my novel-revision seems to be coming together, as does the wedding. My mind was quiet enough to write.
It might be so tomorrow; it might not. We’ll see, and I’ll keep plugging away. At writing, at brooding, at living.