Creativity slump

Today's 100 words:

Another week, and I still find myself in a creativity slump. This morning I tried to think of the reasons I've been so reluctant to go back to writing my poems and stories, hoping that knowing the answer would help me to begin again. I discovered two: discouragement and fear. I'm discouraged because some members of my online critique group seem intent on tearing others down rather than encouraging them constructively, and I'm fearful that the things I've put my heart into will mean nothing to others.

I don't know if this knowledge will change anything at all...

Leaves

Today's 100 words:

Sometimes the sound of the leaves dancing across the pavement in the wind startles me, and I whirl around, expecting to see someone behind me, whether friend or foe I don't know -- perhaps someone wielding an ax or maybe only a box or two of Girl Scout cookies. My heart will perform its adrenaline jump, and when I see no one there, I'll sigh and turn back to what I was doing before the leaves played their tricks on me. They must laugh in their crinkly way at my fearfulness, their ancestors having frightened me in this same way for years.

The same

I'm reading a book right now, Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs, in which the 45-year-old father of the protagonist is still having trouble figuring out what he wants to do with his life. He's an ornithologist, but it seems to be more of a hobby than a vocation; he writes books but never completes them, and his unfinished manuscripts languish in a locked desk drawer. He fears his wife will leave and that his son won't be proud. He's lost. He's a relatable character, I think. Haven't we all felt this way?

They hear

"You fight about money, 'bout me and my brother..." P!NK, "Family Portrait"

Mommy and Daddy yelled at each other in the car yesterday. They were smiling and talking before we left our house, but by the time we got to the costume store, their voices had turned into angry whispers, and then they got louder and louder. Mommy even said a bad word. I didn't understand that or why they were screaming. They always tell Jana and me not to fight; they put us in time-out if we do. What's happening to them? What will happen to us? I'm scared.

Doing this for me

I spent a lot of time this afternoon thinking about writing and about how it hasn't been fun for me recently. I've been too wrapped up in worrying about what other people will think of my work, and as a result, I've become paralyzed, unable to write a single word without analyzing it and second-guessing it. I delete more words than I write, and my inner critic tells me that none of my ideas are interesting, that my prose is flat, that no one will ever want to read--much less publish--anything I write. This thinking has gone on for at least a couple of months now, bringing so much insecurity and fear with it.

Today I decided that I was no longer going to let these negative thoughts keep me from doing what I enjoy. I made the following declaration this afternoon, via Twitter:

Decided the only reason to write is because I love it. Worrying about who else will like it stifles me. I need to do this for me. #amwriting

Do this for me. For me.

I can't let worrying about not being good enough keep me from putting words on the page. I can't keep listening to my inner critic as she tells me that I'm no good and should just quit. If I love writing--and I do--then I have to do it for that reason: for the love of it. If other people like it, that will be a bonus. If I can get some of my fiction published someday, that will be wonderful, a very proud moment, I'm sure. But I learned today that writing with my eyes solely on publication--concerned only with what other people think--doesn't work for me. I'm happiest when I'm doing my 100-word exercises, which I once did as mere writing warm-ups but have recently been taking more time with and really contemplating what I want to say. I don't know what that means or where those little snippets can take me. I only know that I enjoy writing them, and I have to let that kind of enjoyment spill over into the projects I'm working on: the collection of short stories I'm planning; my young adult novel about Jed; my NaNoWriMo project, if I choose to do one this year... The bottom line is, I need to write because I want to. I have to do it for me and no one else.

I'm not giving up my dream of publication. That's still something I want very much. I just realize now that I can't place all my focus on that dream. I can't make it the only reason I write. First, I have to write for me, and as I realized today, that's really all that matters.

One more week...

until my son starts preschool. I'm nervous and anxious and scared. At the same time, I'm excited and happy for my little boy, who can't wait to start his new journey.

Preschool was one of the first things I thought of when I woke up this morning, so it became the subject of today's 100 words:

I'm getting more anxious about the fact that my little boy is starting preschool next week. He's so excited, and I'm glad for that. But I'm also nervous and sad: nervous because I've never had to let someone I don't know care for him, and sad because the start of preschool means the beginning of growing up--and growing away. I won't have him here with me anymore, at least not every day; he'll be taking his first steps on the road to independence. I know he'll love school, but the realization that I can't be near him every minute is so frightening.

That first big step

I'm sure I'll probably write more about this as the day gets closer, but for now, here's 100 words:

My four-year-old starts preschool in about two weeks, and the thought makes me want to cry. I'm not ready to let go of him. He and I have been together every day since he was born. Every day. We don't have family here, and I have a difficult time trusting babysitters, so we've never left the kids with anyone. My husband says I'm being ridiculous, but I don't think that's fair. He works outside the home; he's had practice being away from the kids. I haven't had that. This is going to be hard for me.

Ache

This morning's 100 words:

I woke up this morning with an ache in the pit of my stomach, the kind of pain that comes with the realization that something wonderful will soon be ending. It's an ache that fills me with dread and loneliness and sadness, all premature, yet I feel it weighing so heavily. The suddenness of it all, its imminence, has hit me--slammed into me--and it hurts.

My son starts preschool in the fall, only a few weeks from now, and I'm not ready to let him go. He's always been with me--every moment. I feel lost.

I know that preschool will be good for my son. I know that he'll be happy, that I'll ultimately be glad I sent him, that we'll both adjust. But it's still hard to think about right now...

Liar

This morning's 100 words, this time a vignette:

 

She knew it would only be a matter of time before the lies caught up with her--before everyone began to see past her innocent facade and uncover the real Sarah, that vindictive, selfish woman who'd lived her life trying to attain an ideal: the ideal daughter, wife, mother, friend. But she couldn't be any of those things; she wasn't good enough. She wasn't perfect. And when she made yet another mistake and saw the anger in his eyes, fear set in. He would no longer love her if he knew the truth. And so she lied. Again.

My hope

Last October, I wrote this 100-word piece about something that I often think about now that I'm a parent: understanding my own parents' choices and learning to make them my own:

I grew up being fearful of new things and resistant to changes. My parents were strict; they didn't allow me to do many of the things my friends were doing, mostly out of a fear that I would get hurt. I admit I felt like an outcast many times. Now that I'm a mother, however, I understand my parents' desperate need to protect me from the unknown. My only hope is that I'm able to protect my children while at the same time giving them enough freedom to experience all the things that will help them become well-rounded adults.

On waiting and fear

I'm late now, about three days, if I go by the average length of my cycle.  I've taken three tests in the past several days because my symptoms have been so strong--exactly what I felt with my other pregnancies--but all of them have been negative. As I mentioned before, my husband and I haven't been trying to have another baby. In fact, we had agreed that we were done, mostly because of finances. But the possibility of being pregnant again excited me, so with each test I took, I admit that I was hoping to see that second line. I still am.

Honestly, though, I'm scared now. Although I haven't been charting my basal body temperature each morning this cycle, I did start taking it when I suspected that pregnancy was a possibility, and my temperatures are high, even today; they're clearly in the luteal phase range and haven't dropped to indicate that my period is on its way. My cycle has always been very regular--the only time I've been late is when I was pregnant--and as I look back over the charts I kept when we were trying to conceive our daughter, I see that the temperature pattern I'm experiencing now is very similar to the pattern I experienced when I tested positive. The difference is that I tested positive with my daughter long before this point in my cycle.

I realize that three days isn't that late, at least not for the average woman. However, for me, it's terrifying. I don't talk about this much because it hurts to think about it; only a handful of online friends know, and I've only told one friend in "real" life. Not even my family knows.

I have two beautiful, wonderful children, but I've been pregnant four times.

My first loss came unexpectedly--but who really expects to lose their baby, especially after an earlier pregnancy was textbook and routine? My miscarriage (I hate that word) was a horrifying ordeal that I would never want to go through again: an hCG level that wouldn't rise yet wouldn't fall; talk of ectopic pregnancy; endless blood tests; a doctor's advice for me to get an injection of Methotrexate to induce miscarriage, which was something I could never do; discussions about laparoscopy; so many ultrasounds.

Talk of my death.

This went on for a month, this nightmare, before my period came, and along with the shedding of my uterine lining went the shedding of the last of the hCG in my body. To this day, the doctors can't figure out what happened to me; they had never seen a case like mine before. Mostly what I remember from those days was looking at my then eight-month-old son and realizing that if I died (as the doctors kept telling me was a real possibility) then he would never remember who I was. Just thinking about that makes me cry...

About a year later, I became pregnant with my daughter, and I was on edge the entire pregnancy, worrying that something would happen. Thankfully, nothing did, and she's healthy and perfect.

When she was just over a year old, I became pregnant again, unexpectedly, and I lost that baby on my birthday. I'll forever associate my day of birth with my fourth child's day of death. That anniversary comes up this August.

And now here I am again. My period is late, the tests I've taken are negative, yet my symptoms and basal body temperature indicate that something might be going on. Although it's still early--although I'm not yet that late--my experiences and knowledge of how my body works have me feeling scared. I'm going to wait until Monday, and if nothing happens--if my period doesn't start or a positive doesn't appear on a test--I'm going to see my doctor.

I can't go through this again.

April showers bring new writing goals

At the beginning of January, like most writers, I established some writing goals for the year. I took a look at those goals today and am happy to be able to say that I'm doing well with most of them, like blogging every day and contributing daily to two other writing sites.

The only writing goal that I seem to be having trouble with is my current novel. Now, traditionallyI feel that I'm better at writing short pieces: character sketches, flash fiction, etc. I have written novels before, so I don't think I'm freezing because the story is longer than what I do most often. Still, I'm not entirely sure why my current project is going so slowly. Maybe I'm too close to the idea, and fear is keeping me from working on the book as diligently as I should. Or maybe it's that self-doubt that I wrote about in yesterday's post. Whatever it is, it has succeeded in frustrating me and keeping me from telling the story I want to tell.

Well, I'm through with that.

My goal for April is to shake off whatever it is that is keeping me from working on my novel. I'm going to put much more focus on that piece, devoting more of my time--especially my more productive morning writing hours (something I mentioned in a previous post)--to getting a good start on my first draft. I will tell the story.

I have to.

I'll continue writing the other pieces I love, and I'll continue blogging. But my focus, my heart for April, needs to be on my WIP.

And it will be.

That's my goal.