It's January all of a sudden. I slept through the countdown for the first time EVER, and now I have to keep reminding myself that the year has changed.
It's very weird, because this is something I typically think about for a long time. "This is a new year!," "How is this year going to be different from last year?," "When will I feel like it's this year and not last year?," "I have to remember to write 11 instead of 10"... stuff like that.
But, this time, it's not there. For the past four days, all I've been thinking about is "I'm tired. I have to go to work. Let's go see a movie. What do you want for dinner?" And resolutions? What are those? My resolutions last year didn't take. One of them I'm going to try for again (reading and studying the Bible--ahem, daily), but the other (running a marathon? puh-lease) was a total joke.
On another note, I want to talk about something I don't like talking about. Writing.
I am at a standstill. I suddenly hate reading all the blogs and stuff that I used to really enjoy. I am sick of feeling like I have to write in any certain way, or that I have to be totally original (a requirement I place on myself ruthlessly), or that if it's not going to sell, I shouldn't even bother... industry stuff. Really? Since when have I ever worried about industry stuff?
But, what creative person doesn't fantasize about their work being received by others?
I'm half-forcing and half-allowing myself not to care. Not in this case. It just doesn't mix with me; I can't explain it. I feel as if none of the "formulas" or insights apply.
Conundrum: Publication is not my primary goal (how could it be? I've never done this before!), but I do want my work to reach what I would consider its "final state." Reading up and learning about novel writing helps me feel like I have a solid chance of getting there. Sadly, these same things make me feel like a worthless waste of energy for not caring so much about getting published. Which makes me question why I even spend the time writing.
I came to a really big stopping point in what I'd been working on. It's not the end, by any means, but it was my unofficial goal for 2010, I guess, and I made it there. So I feel good about myself, you know? I partially accomplished something!
Here's the rub: I really want to go back and fix what I've already done before moving on. And there is A LOT to fix. Like, 75 pages' worth.
And here's another rub: As much as I love my days at the library, I am so ready to have an actual DAY OFF, where I can go to the store or read or (gasp!) stay home and play Epic Mickey all day. This is a bad place for me to be. I tend to over-simplify my life after feeling consumed by something. For example: how many times have I been back to Pier 1 (any Pier 1) after not working there anymore? Once. And it was right around the wedding, so, a long time ago. I can't even make myself go inside a Pier 1, here. Have I been back to Walden since I stopped working there? Hardly. Impellizzeri's? Twice, maybe.
And what about running? That was my everything for a while, but once I quit, I QUIT. Why do I put so much distance between myself and these things? Why the regression?
What a way to start the year, huh? I promise, I'm not always this sour. And wait, tomorrow I'll be singing the library's praises again. One very fun thing about writing, when you take away the anxiety, is the propensity you find you have to surprise yourself. If you just keep going, it'll come. This is the sort of thing I have confidence in, because I've seen it. Like my old pal, running. Kinda sucks to get into it, but once you're there, the work starts to happen on its own.