Writing

So. We all know I’m working on using my time in better ways. I hesitate to say “more productive,” because that’s a trap I’m trying to sidestep. What I’m seeking, at least right now, is a way to find more joy, creativity, and (cringe a little here if you want) fulfillment through the things where I focus my time.

You know what’s not helping? Reels. Tik Toks, depending on the day.

I know how algorithms work. I know the more I watch certain things, the more I’ll see related things. Yet the time I’m spending watching Reels created from snippets of Queen Charlotte aren’t really adding joy to my day. It’s not that I don’t think Queen Charlotte is worth watching; the opposite is closer to the truth. I want to watch it, “when I have time.” Yet, while I still haven’t found the time to sit down and watch an episode, I keep watching little bits and pieces. If you added all those bits and pieces, I know they more than make up the time needed to watch an episode.

The same goes for the rest of the time I waste clicking around on random things.

Now, I know recognizing issues is an important part of overcoming issues, but this one feels like it’s getting harder for me instead of easier. With all of the integration of platforms, I find myself falling into a rabbit hole of incomplete content, when I used to use social media for connection or (on rare occasions) inspiration.

I realize I can shift my algorithm by watching more content to related to the things I’m trying to focus on this summer. I’m not sure that’s the answer. I want to practice creating without the pressure of “should I make reels?” “this author’s reels make me want to read her books,” and that doesn’t even touch on the mammoth corner of the internet that is BookTok and Bookstagram.

I’m hopeful the more I try to fill my time with a variety of books, some of which can be read in snippets, unlike my beloved novels, the less I’ll find myself staring at a screen in the middle of the day, at least the screens containing things created by people other than myself.

When a new month begins on a Monday, a world of possibilities awaits. Yet, when that month is July, my heart clenches a bit with the knowledge that the year is halfway done. My goals, as always, seem to be in tatters in the notes of my journal, in unfinished to-do lists that I have stopped moving forward to the next page. I’m not sure if the problem lies (lays?) in the way I set goals or in the way I fail to execute the necessary steps, but it’s definitely a problem.

I’m working to change things. Butt in the seat more frequently and shoes on my feet to make sure I’m moving my body, not just for the physical results but also to quiet my thoughts. Part of my problem, I know, sits in the space between lofty, book-writing goals and mundane, fix-up-this-house goals, because for some reason I am terrible at working on both the practical and the ideal at the same time. If I could balance the two a bit better, I would get more done, but I am tiptoeing toward fifty and don’t seem to be any better at it than when I was leaving unfinished “novels” next to my typewriter in my childhood bedroom.

I’m rambling, which is my prerogative here, in this corner of the internet I’m not sure anyone other than me (and a few bots) even knows exists anymore. It’s something, though, to be sitting and rambling instead of letting the words fester in my head until I can’t untangle them any longer.

Maybe, in the second half of the year, I can untangle the undergrowth.

Maybe, in the second half of the year, my writing will be able to breathe again.

I began drafting a new short story the other day. Like all beginnings, it felt exciting. I opened Scrivener, opened a relaxing playlist, and began working. Prior to starting, I made a few notes on an index card (hot pink), and I truly meant to pound out a great amount of words between then and now.

I haven’t.

I did draft that day, and I might have a character or two, though I’m not sure about names and definitely don’t feel all that attached to anyone right now, and whose idea was it to draft a Christmas story in the midst of a Midwestern heat wave? (It was my idea. And honestly? I should have started this project well before any heatwave could have even thought about happening.)

My writing brain might be broken.

It’s a tough thing to admit, when I used to have ideas tumbling over ideas in my head, some of them even scribbled on note cards or in notebooks or in draft folders that fester away in the depths of my Dropbox files. I see it here, where my thoughts are in tiny spurts instead of actual paragraphs. I see it in my journal, where most days I can only muster up the energy and concentration to write a gratitude list. I see it here (again), as I open up my blog instead of the new project folder I started for my Christmas short.

My writing brain might be broken, but my writing muscles definitely are. I don’t remember how to shut off my thoughts and listen to the whispers of characters and, maybe more importantly for the type of writer I am, the flow and rhythm of the words I want to use. Even when I do put together words, they sound choppy and stilted, bullet points masquerading as sentences, dialogue never overheard during an eavesdropped conversation, exposition upon exposition instead of action.

Guilt creeps in if I even think about sitting and staring out the window, if I try to relax my mind enough to hear what’s going on inside. This is the first time I’ve attempted to write since Ryan began working from home. Not to sound icky, but some of the guilt comes from the feeling that he might judge how unproductive a lot of writing actually looks. In the past, it’s been maybe invisible to him, and now it feels bare and exposed, especially since I am so out of practice and so unsure of how the words are even going to make it from the ether to my mind to the page.

I don’t remember it feeling so hard in the past, though I’m sure it did, the way I don’t remember the hardest edges of having little kids around the house. I don’t remember the way I fought exhaustion after a restless night of sleep and a refusal of naps; I remember the fun of refilling the bottomless Diet Coke at the zoo and letting the kids pick more animals to see as we wandered around. Similarly, I don’t remember the drafting process for the stories I’ve written. I remember the back and forth banter of working with Cam and Mandy, the process of determining cover images and front matter quotations.

Now it’s time to build up those unremembered muscles again, to pull the words out from somewhere, even as they hide away in the shadows. I know it’s possible. I’m just not sure how to get started. (OK, I AM aware of how to do it; it’s just easier to ponder existence here instead of sitting down and getting to work.)