Since my last post on Sept. 27 (gasp, AGES ago … cue panic attack …), I have begun to write my next entry about a million times. Why has it taken me so long to get something out, especially as I have been officially “between work projects” since Oct. 1? Excellent question, and I find the answer is complicated, yet simple to answer. Or exactly the opposite of that, I’m not entirely sure.
Welcome into my head, writer’s block. Total creativity meltdown. The ultimate brain fart.
It’s not that I don’t have a lot to say, or that I am without 15 drafts of (obviously) brilliant future musings. But getting things from my brain, to my fingers, to the electronic page has been excruciating. The worst part? Writing is, usually, one of my favorite things to do.
- I am embarrassed to admit that I have been feeling a bit “poor me” (YES, I am pathetic, we have established this multiple times before) as I’ve been so busy and tired trying to get through an endless to-do list while wondering why it is not possible to get a moment of downtime without paying tons of money to get away to some overpriced beach destination.
- Survivor’s guilt. There is no other way to put it. (this will be the topic of a future posting as it’s been weighing heavily on me lately). So, as you all know, my brother killed himself nearly three years ago. What a fucking pussy. In the past month I have witnessed a woman give everything she had to live another day and spend another moment with her family, only to lose a nearly decade-long battle with cancer. Friends have gone through a variety of medical tests — some with outcomes as good as you could hope for, others not so much. I’m angry that he chose an easy way out with so many others are fighting for every moment.
- Tackling such simple things of my life — putting together a photo album, paying my taxes, decorating the apartment — hasn’t had the expected effect of relief. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy to check things off of the to-do list. But why do I work myself up over such nonsense?
- Why is it that the things that I love to do, that fulfill me creatively, aren’t the things that enable me to pay my rent? I’ve spent nearly 20 years building a very successful career. Which is great and all, and I truly do like what I do. But did I go wrong somewhere in the past by doing what was “safe” as opposed to what was insane, yet (potentially) insanely awesome? And does thinking about this mean I’m entering some kind of mid-life crisis, which I am ENTIRELY TOO YOUNG for?