Thinking about writing.

Resilience in retrograde.

Image of a person looking at Milky Way, planets, night sky

Rough week at my day job. You can roll your eyes all you want at the whole Mercury in retrograde thing but, man, the communication issues.

That’s the difficulty with trying to create art past the hobby-level: all my best energy is devoted to something else. All the energy I could be devoting to untangling the climax of my book is devoted to untangling issues with a catalog. All the energy I could be devoting to seeking and following and interacting with literary agents is devoted to trying to finish a project but *redacted because I forgot I have coworkers in this group*. All the resilience I could be devoting to making this book the very best I can make it before I send it out into the world to be rejected and refused is being sucked up by rejection and refusal and conflict and being ignored at my day job.

I’m exhausted. I just want to work on my book.

Yes, I know that I get paid for all of that, though, in true West Texas form, it’s about 75% of what a man with my same experience and seniority doing my same job gets paid. And maybe if I would stop fighting it, just give in and do my job and stop wanting to be somewhere else and doing something else, I would not be so frustrated.

But you know what?

I’m not going to do it. Not going to give up. Not going to stop fighting. Not going to give in. I’m going to pretend that I am strong and resilient and confident and just let that wasted energy go.

That was yesterday. It’s a new day, a new month. Advent is upon us, the most beautiful season of waiting and hope. In spite of all my grousing about work, we get a nice long break in three weeks, so that is something to be grateful for. I plan to spend most of it writing.

I’m nowhere near where I planned to be today when November started, with all its Nanowrimo zeal. Life intervenes. Work sucks all our creative energy sometimes. But I’m much further along than I was six months ago. Way further than I was a year ago, when I had given up on this book. Five years ago, I was just starting a new job after taking care of my mom and her stuff and struggling to finish a book about Los Alamos that didn’t have legs. And 11 years ago? I was a broken-down, suicidal, chronically-ill, ostracized, failed nun who hadn’t written a word outside of letters in 20 years.

I guess I’ve made progress. Onward.

(Written for our Creative Accountability FB group)

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