Pressure

"But you will come to a place where the only thing you feel are loaded guns in your face, and you'll have to deal with pressure." ~"Pressure" by Billy Joel

Pressure. I've been feeling it a lot lately: a tug-of-war between following my dream and caring for my family. I've wanted to be a published writer since I was very young. In some ways I've succeeded--I was a journalist and have a portfolio of published articles--but my ultimate dream has always been to publish a book--to be able to walk into a bookstore and find my humble words on the shelf beside those of so many others. I've been working toward this goal for years, writing and rewriting the rough drafts of various books and working on other pieces as well, all with my eyes toward achieving my goal.

For the past several weeks, however, I've felt as if my dream is just that--a dream. I don't know if I'll ever achieve it. I've written before about the pressure I feel to be a good mother and the pressure I feel to work toward my writing dreams: those two things compete, leaving me feeling guilty about the amount of time I spend with my children versus the amount of time I spend writing. Pressure and guilt. Some days I feel like I'm missing my children's childhoods as I sit and type at the computer. Other days I feel like my writing dreams are slipping away while I take my kids to storytime or bring them to playdates featuring perpetual games of Candy Land. I can't seem to find a balance. And the pressure to do so--to somehow come to grips with the guilt--has gotten to be too much.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do. Maybe I need to take a break from my larger projects--but only my larger ones. I could never stop writing completely; I would never want to. I need to write. I know that. Maybe I should just focus on my short stories, on my 100-word pieces, and on this blog. Right now, I don't know if I can keep working on my books, following that dream. I know there will come a point when my children won't need me so much--a point that I dread because it already makes me feel so sad. But maybe then it will be time to follow my dream. Or maybe that time is now, and if I don't do it right this second, I never will. I really don't know. I wish I did.

Pressure.

Guilt

Today's 100-word fiction:

Natalie had heard people say that life should be lived with no regrets: no looks back over the shoulder at the other road one could have taken, no I-wish-I-would-haves, no do-overs. But Natalie couldn't live her life that way. She did look back, ashamed of a decision she had made years ago, regretful that she had turned against her faith and consciously traveled the wrong path. And even though that one decision led her to the beautiful family she would never regret, her actions shamed her. Her heart was always heavy.

Still struggling to find that balance

I started this blog as a way of trying to figure out how to balance my responsibilities as a stay-at-home mom with my passion for writing. I needed a place to record my thoughts--not only my thoughts about writing but about family life and other musings as well--so that I could step back and see where I could make changes or alter my days so that I have time to do everything I want to do. I needed a plan.

I haven't found one yet.

What I've learned most from seeing parts of my life "in print" is that I can't do it all. This is something I've always known, of course, but recording my thoughts here has made me see how true it is, and since I've always been a perfectionist, this truth really hurts. I see that I'm hard on myself for not being able to cross everything off my to-do list each day, and I suffer from a huge case of Mommy Guilt whenever I try to do something for myself. For example, if I decide to write a few paragraphs instead of playing a game with the kids, I feel almost crippled by the guilt. All I can think of is that I'm "wasting" their childhood and that I should be spending every possible minute I can with them before I'm no longer the center of their world.

And I learned that I suffer from another kind of guilt as well: Writer Guilt.  If I use naptime to try to keep up with the laundry instead of plotting the next part of my WIP, I feel guilty. If I opt to walk on the treadmill before the kids are up instead of working on the 100 words exercises I do each morning, I feel guilty. If I decide to relax by watching television when the kids go to bed instead of trying to edit or write another chapter, I feel guilty. The list goes on.

There are so many important things that I want to do and that I need to do, and I can't seem to find the balance.

It occurred to me today that maybe I just have a guilty personality. I've felt guilty about things all my life, some serious and some silly: guilt over going out with friends rather than spending time with my now deceased grandma; guilt over leaving my dog at home when I know that she'd really like to go for a ride in the car; guilt over opting to sleep in instead of going to church... I realize that everyone experiences guilt, but I think I take it to an extreme. I let it paralyze me until I'm unable to accomplish anything. Maybe it is just part of my personality, something innate, wired in. But I know I could learn to control it, if only I knew how.

Since I can't seem to find the answer--if there is one--I want to ask you. How do you achieve balance in your life? How do you decide which of your responsibilities is most important at any given moment? How do you "do it all"? Or if you don't accomplish everything, how do you find peace about the things that you're not able to do?

Like taffy, I suppose...

I'm pulled in way too many directions.

With all the demands I get from others--husband, son, daughter, the list goes on--I have to ask myself: "Will I ever be able to put myself first again--without feeling guilty?"

And is it selfish of me even to ask?

Answers: I sure hope so -- and I sure hope not.

It's been one of those days...

Fiction. Nonfiction. Me.

I'm not sure that one can classify fiction and nonfiction as "difficult to write" and "not as difficult to write," but for me, nonfiction has always seemed easier. I've never really had difficulty writing about myself, my life, my friends and family; everything--the scenarios, the character quirks and flaws--was there for the taking, and I was simply the one putting it down on paper.

Lately, though, writing about myself is becoming harder, and for the past six months or so, I've found that it's easier to hide myself in fiction rather than expose myself in the spotlight of nonfiction. I'm not sure what's driving this change, although I can postulate that all the failures I feel as a mom have subconsciously led me to fiction as a means of getting away from a reality I'm not proud of. However, strangely enough, my current project is about a mother and her struggle with coming to terms with her life and how she's living it. And motherhood, in fact, is a recurring topic in my fiction, both in my short stories and in my novel-length works, and the mother's struggle with guilt is a common theme.  Perhaps, then, I'm not finding fiction easier than nonfiction but more forgiving instead; with fiction, I can cover my real sins with the made-up sins of others, and no one will be the wiser.

I don't know. I think there's something here, but I'm not sure I've found it yet...

Guilt and Panic

I had a minor panic attack about my to-do list this morning. There's just so much to do, and the things I want to do keep getting pushed farther and farther down the list. My writing ends up coming last most days, mainly because I don't think my husband really supports me, and so when he's around, if I try to write, I feel guilty--like I'm not doing enough to "earn my keep." He's really not that bad, I guess, but our house is by no means spotless, and sometimes when he comes home from work I feel like he's looking around, checking to see what I've cleaned or straightened or put away. Those "inspections" are embarrassing--they make me feel more like an employee than a wife--and I'm sure that I'm falling short in his eyes. All of this just adds to the pressure I feel.

Today's to-do list, the source of all my panic, is long, and I know I won't complete it. I don't complete it most days, and I'm not sure what to do about that. I already try to prioritize, to do the most crucial things first. I can't sleep any less; I only get four or five hours a night now. I just don't know what to do to make it all work. I'm at a loss.

I guess that today I'm just going to try to take things one at a time and get through as much as I can. That means my writing will once again be last, though--and that makes me sad (and even a little angry).

The guilt trip

I'm writing this post in the computer room and feeling guilty for not being in the living room, playing cars with my son.

Yesterday I felt guilty for washing dishes and cleaning up the kitchen instead of reading books to the kids.

After the kids are in bed each night, I feel guilty for writing instead of spending time with my husband.

And when I write, I feel guilty for working on projects other than my novel...

This is my life: all guilt, all the time. I can't get away from it. No matter what I'm doing--particularly if I'm doing something that happens to be for me, like writing--I feel like there's something more important that I should be working on instead. One day, my life stopped being my sole focus, and that was the day Guilt came to stay.  He might have arrived when my husband and I married, but most likely, he was birthed with the kids. Regardless, I don't think he's always wrong in his assessments: I know that my priorities are skewed sometimes. But figuring out how to live for myself and for others? Well, that's the hard part.