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...

Procrastinating my life

Procrastinating. Spinning my wheels. Standing in one place while the world passes me by. Whatever words I use to describe it, I feel ... stagnant. I feel as if I'm not doing enough to realize any of my goals and dreams. I'm finding too many reasons to quit, too many reasons to say that I can put whatever it is off until tomorrow. But what if there's no tomorrow?

I'm procrastinating about many things right now. First, my WIP. I haven't done much more than think about it these past couple of months. But last night as I was getting ready for bed, I asked myself, "Dana, what are you doing? You want to write this novel; you want to tell this story. Why aren't you doing it? What's stopping you? If you want to tell the story, you need to tell it. Stop merely thinking about it. Stop dreaming about it. Just do it. Just write."

For the first time, I really listened to what I was thinking; I finally heard myself. I can't keep thinking about this book; I need to write it. I still don't know what's holding me back on this project, but I realize that now is the time to write. Now. I can't listen to that critic in my head, the one who tells me that my idea isn't good enough. I just need to write--now. What if I don't have tomorrow?

This line of thinking extended into a couple of other things that have been bothering me. First, spirituality. I don't feel close to God anymore, not like I used to, and I feel such a need to "fix" that. I tell myself nearly every day, "Oh, I'll get back into Bible reading tomorrow" or "I'll start studying scripture again just as soon as my life gets a little less crazy." But I never do--I don't read; I don't study. I know I need to. Part of the reason I feel so aimless so much of the time--so directionless--is because I let the guilt I feel about how I live my life prevent me from nurturing my spiritual life. I miss that part of my life.

And then there's my weight. I'm not heavy--not even close. However, I do have a few extra pounds now after giving birth to two babies. I want to lose the weight, but the fact is, I'm lazy. I hate the treadmill, hate any form of exercise. And I love chocolate way too much--it's become an addiction. I feel like I have to have it or I can't get through the day--and that would be funny if it weren't the absolute truth: I can't cope with stress without chocolate. And I feel lethargic, out of shape. I need to change; I need to get healthy again. I need to stop saying that I'll do it tomorrow and start taking care of myself today.

I'm procrastinating my life. I keep putting things off for the future without knowing for certain that the future is there for me. I'm being stupid. I'm wasting time. I have to stop.

Now is the time to reach for my goals. Tomorrow may be too late.

The pressure to create

I've been thinking today about the pressure I'm putting on myself as I try to write my new novel. I don't like to say I have writer's block; I'm not sure I even believe in that term. I write every day, fiction and nonfiction, and for the most part the words come easily. But every time I start to think about my current WIP, something in me freezes, and I can't let myself go--my words and thoughts are tangled, and nothing I write seems, well, right. I don't feel the freedom that writing usually gives me; I don't feel like I can let my words just dance across the page. Instead, writing each sentence--each word--is agonizingly difficult. The pressure is on--and I'm the one causing it.

I wrote today, as I always write, but I wrote nothing on my novel, and each time I started to think about it, I would shove the thoughts away. I don't know why I'm doing this, why writing is suddenly tortuous rather than freeing. Maybe I'm just putting too much pressure on myself. Maybe it's not time for this WIP yet. Maybe I need to set it aside for a month or for six months. Maybe I need to allow some time to pass so that I can gain perspective on just what it is I'm trying to accomplish with this mother's story.

I'm frustrated. I have so much to say, but I can't find the words.

Writing and maintaining distance

I just posted these thoughts about my WIP on a Web site I contribute to daily and decided to post them here as well:

At its core, the novel I'm working on now is about something very close to my heart--motherhood--and I think that closeness is making the book more difficult to write. I put so much--perhaps too much--of myself into my fiction, and I sometimes find it hard to divorce myself from my characters. Certainly it's important to see the world through a character's eyes, but it's also necessary to maintain some distance, to see the character as a separate person with unique traits and complexities. I'm finding it hard to take that step back this time.

An unexpected day off

I know, moms never really get a day off, so technically, I'm still "at work." However, I declared today a snow day when I woke up this morning and saw all the snow blanketing the yard--with the promise of much more to come. I was supposed to take the kids to story time, but my friend called to tell how horrible her drive this morning had been, so here I am--here we are--at home.

This week has been so busy that it feels good to have a leisurely (if noisy) day. Right now the kids are playing with their remote control car out in the living room, and I've been getting some of my chores done: the store list is written for our grocery shopping trip tonight, I've completed my registration for the Barnes and Noble Kids' Club, I've done a little writing. Overall, it's been a productive morning, and I'm enjoying not having to rush around the way I have so much of this week. It's also nice to be able to write this post in the morning rather than late at night.

Tomorrow we'll be heading to Sears to have the kids' pictures taken, and I need to get their clothes ready and check to see if my daughter's shoes still fit. Other than that--and some cleaning via the instructions at Flylady--I plan on having a relaxing, stay-inside-the-house kind of day.

The enemy of all writers

Procrastination.

And I'm finding it an all-too-familiar enemy with my current WIP. Maybe I'm too close to my subject. Maybe I'm spending too much time on other things when I should be focusing on my writing instead. Maybe I'm just allowing my busyness to be an excuse.

Whatever it is--a slump, a block, or something else--I haven't been working on my novel nearly as much as I should. It's time for me to get back to my online writer's group, join in on the timed sprints, and make writing this novel the priority it needs to be.

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...