A) Devote myself to writing crime novels with a strong female detective who takes no bull from no one! and solves crimes with an effortless ease.
B) Devote myself to saving enough money so I could move to some foreign land and change my name to Stacy and work in a coffee shop until I die in a freak matchstick accident.
Things got thrown off track when I got some encouragement regarding the writing I had done previous to this life crisis (Sorry I keep mentioning it....)
So, silly me, I thought this would propel me into writerly greatness! I would jump back in to the game with both feet! I would write stories again!
That was several weeks ago and aside from a couple of awesome ideas bouncing around in my head, I can't seem to figure out how to sit down and, well, write.
Something in my head is reassuring me, telling me it's like riding a bike. You never forget....the thing is, I never really learned to ride a bike.
I mean, I used to own a bike (two actually, both were left in the basements of apartment buildings) and I rode them around. On sidewalks. Slowly. Convinced I would be hit by a car (and living in Chicago, that's not such a silly thought as it happens much too often in this city).
So, what to do, what to do...... I don't know.
I feel very stuck right now. I feel torn between the weight of some imagined expectations and the weight of no one even noticing if I've published lately or not (not).
I feel overwhelmed by the amount of stuff in my apartment.
I feel overwhelmed by the routine of my week.
I'm tired of seeing the same buildings on the bus ride to work.
I've been sleeping as much as possible and I have to say, it's the highlight of my day because I dream real good and those dreams are never the same, never routine, never weighted down by all that makes every day so heavy.
I think I need to sell all of my belongings and find a good home for my cats. I think I need to reduce my necessities to a sturdy shoulder bag and go wandering, free of name and family and expectations self-put and otherwise.
But, that's what dreams are for, and writing, yes? To escape this monotony and suffocation. So.
I suppose I'll put my faith in that muscle memory that allows me to play certain songs on the piano with my eyes closed after years away from practice. That allows me to type as fast as I love to type.
Is it so bad to relax and wait for some moment when I don't feel burdened by the expectation to create something? Is it so bad to close my eyes to the expectation of progress and to sleep for an extra few minutes? To indulge in these moments that are mine and mine alone? Is it so bad to not be a writer who chains herself to her desk every morning, but instead to be a writer who *Really* enjoys a good cup of coffee and a lazy hot shower every morning?