Good morning, Readers!
It’s probably just pandemic brain, but I’m feeling very unattached to everything right now. I’m going through the motions. I wake, pack the lunch I made the night before, go to work. I work, eat lunch, write, return to work. I return home, make lunch for the following day, feed the cat, and retire to bed to read or watch YouTube and cuddle the cat.
”?????????????????????????????????????
I apologize. That was the cat. He’s decided I’m not paying enough attention to him and so stepped on the keyboard. Update: he’s taken over my lap, leaving no room for my iPad. What an adorable jerk.
The iPad is now resting on the cat, the keyboard at an odd angle against my tummy. I apologize for the inevitable typos.
Right, where was I? Oh yes. I’m going through the motions.
I don’t like it. I feel hollow. This all seems pointless, you know?
Not the writing. The writing is not pointless. It’s one of the only times I’m so focussed on something that the hollowness fades and I’m alive. But even then, when my writing session is done, I question why I bother. It doesn’t support me (financially). It likely never will. So why bother? Why am I even trying? Still. Always trying. Never getting anywhere. A hamster in a wheel. Sisyphus pushing the rock only to fail and have to start again. And again. And again. Without point or purpose. I’m just pushing that rock to push the rock; a hopeless task.
They say insanity is trying the same thing over and over, expecting different results. What does that subscribe if not my writing journey?
Write, submit, get rejected.
Write, submit. get rejected.
And even I know that isn’t actually true. I have two books published with a small press - it may be three soon, I don’t know (they agreed to take on my backlist, starting with Sky Road Walker, but I’m not sure when that’s coming out, if ever). That might grow with these next few books, though I fully expect to be caught in the Write, Submit, Get Rejected cycle all over again.
So it’s not like I’ve gone nowhere at all.
And still, it feels like I’m going nowhere with anything. Not just writing, but my life.
I don’t have a place of my own. I will never be able to afford a house at the rate the housing prices are going... and at the rate I’m going. No relationship (and don’t want one, really, but somehow it still weighs on my sometimes). A job that is, well, a job.
Part of this is, of course, depression. It saps the colour from the world. It will pass, no doubt. It always does. But for now, I feel like I’m aimlessly floating, going nowhere, trying for no reason. Pointless.
It will pass.
Perhaps I might even have something exciting happen.
Maybe.
One day.
It doesn’t feel like that at the moment, though.
I don’t really have a neat conclusion to this post. Just... be patient with me while I try and climb out of this slump. I’ll be back to myself in no time.
Ciao.
”?????????????????????????????????????
I apologize. That was the cat. He’s decided I’m not paying enough attention to him and so stepped on the keyboard. Update: he’s taken over my lap, leaving no room for my iPad. What an adorable jerk.
The iPad is now resting on the cat, the keyboard at an odd angle against my tummy. I apologize for the inevitable typos.
Right, where was I? Oh yes. I’m going through the motions.
I don’t like it. I feel hollow. This all seems pointless, you know?
Not the writing. The writing is not pointless. It’s one of the only times I’m so focussed on something that the hollowness fades and I’m alive. But even then, when my writing session is done, I question why I bother. It doesn’t support me (financially). It likely never will. So why bother? Why am I even trying? Still. Always trying. Never getting anywhere. A hamster in a wheel. Sisyphus pushing the rock only to fail and have to start again. And again. And again. Without point or purpose. I’m just pushing that rock to push the rock; a hopeless task.
They say insanity is trying the same thing over and over, expecting different results. What does that subscribe if not my writing journey?
Write, submit, get rejected.
Write, submit. get rejected.
And even I know that isn’t actually true. I have two books published with a small press - it may be three soon, I don’t know (they agreed to take on my backlist, starting with Sky Road Walker, but I’m not sure when that’s coming out, if ever). That might grow with these next few books, though I fully expect to be caught in the Write, Submit, Get Rejected cycle all over again.
So it’s not like I’ve gone nowhere at all.
And still, it feels like I’m going nowhere with anything. Not just writing, but my life.
I don’t have a place of my own. I will never be able to afford a house at the rate the housing prices are going... and at the rate I’m going. No relationship (and don’t want one, really, but somehow it still weighs on my sometimes). A job that is, well, a job.
Part of this is, of course, depression. It saps the colour from the world. It will pass, no doubt. It always does. But for now, I feel like I’m aimlessly floating, going nowhere, trying for no reason. Pointless.
It will pass.
Perhaps I might even have something exciting happen.
Maybe.
One day.
It doesn’t feel like that at the moment, though.
I don’t really have a neat conclusion to this post. Just... be patient with me while I try and climb out of this slump. I’ll be back to myself in no time.
Ciao.
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