Writerly Things ~ Making Time

Additional Disclaimer:

Plenty of earthy language follows. Just sayin'.

Dear Reader, I'm ready to bet that at least once in your life you've uttered a sentiment similar to this one: "I'd do {insert super-groovy thing you'd love to do here} if only I had the time." Now, God knows I've experienced phases in which my every day responsibilities to my full-time jobby-job, my son, my parents, even my friends, have overwhelmed me. Everybody wants a piece of me and there's precious little to spare. Yeah, life can suck like that, sometimes.

If, like me, you also battle the demon of depression, then doing that super-groovy thing you love can seem impossible. In part, you feel like when you don't have to do a thing, you just bloody well won't do it, and that's that. You're drained, exhausted. You've got nothing left in you to give, even to yourself. You just can't do it. That is even le suckier, because then you find yourself letting your spare hour/evening/weekend piddle away and guilt floods you, because now  you can do that super-groovy thing, and what the fuck are you doing with this precious gift of time, but a whole lotta nothing???

Well, funk that noise.

First, whether you do or don't suffer from depression, those feelings of guilt are an exaggerated response to that evil little rat-bastard worming his way through your soul and mind and, as such, are pretty useless. Except for making you feel worse about yourself, and who the hell needs that? Pas moi. And pas toi, for that matter. Nobody needs that.

You know what you do need?

You need to do that super-groovy thing you love.

Why do you need to? Because it's medicinal; doing something you love can make you feel better, and then you may want to do more, and feel better still. Because you feeling better will make the people who love you feel better, and then you want to perpetuate that cycle 'cause, you know, you love them. And feeling better is as much a need as food, water, shelter, and Lindt chocolates. (OK, maybe that last one's not a need, but damn; work with me, people.) And, you know, you don't worry too much about finding time to eat, drink, and seek shelter. You do that shit tout de suite because you know you need to. So forget about trying to find time for that super-groovy thing you love; you're going to make time for it.

For me, that super-groovy thing is sex, but since that's not on the table (or on any other piece of furniture, alas), I write. I adore writing. I love my main characters. When I make time to hang out with them, as I've been managing to do more and more, of late, I'm all giddy and infatuated and, frankly, I'm so engrossed in their stories that I've no sense of time passing. The pleasure I derive from writing is just as hot as sex. There, I said it. No, I'm not high. Writing is as good as sex, for me, and if you're a writer, it may be true for you as well, and who the hell doesn't want to make time for sex???

Right; my train of thought just got a wee bit derailed, there. Pardonnez-moi.

Writers, whatever your situation, you can make time for that super-groovy writing you love. Look at your weekly planner, determine how much time you can devote to your writing, and write that jazz down in pen. (Everything's more serious when you write it in pen, ever notice that?) It doesn't have to be a lot of time, but it should be as close to every day as possible. (Ladies taking The Pill: you take that thing on some kinda regular schedule or else the system fails, amiright???) And when that precious time rolls around, you make sure your space for it is set up and just get down to it. Don't turn on the TV (unless you really, truly get into the writing flow when there's background conversation), don't log in to any social media. Just write. Write by hand, if online-goofery's too tempting to resist otherwise. I crank up my favorite tuneage and get cracking. (Duran Duran's got a way of priming my pump.) (So to speak.)

And don't worry about doing it perfectly. Like sex, the pleasure of writing doesn't spring from some flawless ideal; it comes from the sweaty physical contact, the stumbling engagement with the moment, and the breathtaking twists that come along the way to shake, rattle, and roll you. (I know you know what I'm talking about.) I read this nifty piece from Writers Digest today, and the bit about "nothing is ever wasted" really resonated with me. 'Cause it ain't. It's all beautiful. And it's all good. And anyway, we don't need perfection; what we need is to strive.

My Current State of Mind...

...is equal to and greater than overwhelmed. I know some of y'all can relate.

Work's been crazy; gotta refill a position that became vacant in the office, have been picking up some slack from that vacancy, work travel coming up this week too, and have fallen a wee bit behind in my usual duties, alas.

Need to move out of my apartment by the end of the week. Been going through stuff to see what comes with, what gets tossed, and what's worth trying to sell. Am really bumming out about moving back in with the 'rents and feel kinda awful for bumming out, as they couldn't be more ready to help. But I just ache, ache, ache inside at having to move back into that small apartment (my parents own a two-family house and have the upstairs apartment). As well, it's in the town in which I grew up, which has seriously deteriorated since my youth. It's not merely a question of there's nothing to do/nowhere to go, it's actually become a dangerous place to live.

For those new to my blog, I'm moving back in with my parents, bless them, so that money I'd have put toward rent will go to my son's college fees. It's a sacrifice on several parts, mine and my parents, who're giving up space to me, free-of-charge, for which I am truly grateful. But the closer I get to the moving date, the more I feel I'm going to implode from the strain and the sense of loss.

I got no head space left for anything and this blog post is shite. I'm spent, y'all.

Gah, gah, GAH!

OK, tantrum over. For now.

Here's a pic of the sign I made to attempt to entice folks in my building to come buy my crap-that-I-don't-want-to-pack:

And here's a tune that's looping in my mind a lot, of late:

Postscript: I felt myself teetering so near the edge of despair that I texted my Dear Friend Nikki and we went out for comfort food. Spending the evening with her, bitching and laughing, really helped. Thank God for you, Nikki, and for all good friends, everywhere—y'all make the slogging-through-shit that much tolerable. (Plus, she let me unload some of my crap-that-I-don't-want-to-pack on her!) <3