May 8, 2014

I can’t seem to write…much. I wanted to say “anything” but that would be unfair. I do write a little. Nowadays I find myself looking for the slightest reasons to not write. I could be from shooting a film or I could have had a tiresome day and do I really have to write 300 words that I really don’t feel like writing?

The very thought of writing weighs me down with fatigue. I know it shouldn’t and I think I’m just being lazy. But how do I stop myself?

Deep down, I don’t really get it why I write- why I feel the need to write. I enjoy writing most of the time. It comforts me a lot in very many ways but I sometimes get the feeling there should be a bigger reason for writing. Like a super profound reason of sorts. Like a calling. The more I say this the more I feel like some female Moses with visions from a burning bush.

I’m not into that shit anyhow- the belief of being “called” to do something. It just takes the fun out of things. The thing about a calling is that it always sounds more like a sacrifice than something you would do regardless- and writing to me is that thing I would do regardless.

Is writing supposed to be fun then? Isn’t writing supposed to be fun? Am I meant to want to write the whole damn time even when I don’t want to? I really avoid pushing myself too hard in such situations- especially since I have been mentally steady (all things considered) for this long. I haven’t had much drama with my depression lows because each time I start to push myself to the wall; I take a step back to breath. And it’s been working well since the beginning of the year. I can’t afford to lose it right now.

So you can guess the type of predicament I am in; not wanting to push myself but still being hell bent on having written 52 short stories by the end of the year. I am in the fifth month and I feel I have little to show for my 52 shorts project. I know however, that by the end of the year, I will have my short stories. I will be damned if I don’t.

I want to take it slow though. I can’t afford to break right now. This is the longest I have been okay for as long as I can recall. I don’t want to lose it since I will throw it all on a whim and I really can’t afford that. Not this time. Not this year.

Other than dreaming big and doing it large, I should learn to take baby steps and give myself time to get on from where I have been. And so I will not push myself to write each day- not each day. I will have a short story each week but that is all I will demand of myself. One short story per week.

And it may be laziness on my part or it might be a useful precaution; I don’t know yet but I am not taking chances. One piece each week. If I do more, well and good; but as long as I finish one story, I will allow myself to rest and not nag my mind about writing more and more.

Journal: Oct.26.2020
Made of Sand
Not Dura, but Alaminadura

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