Not writing, just being.

I haven’t written for a few weeks. I should never stop, stopping fucks me up.

It was my twins 11th birthdays so I spent time shopping, wrapping, baking a disastrous cake, and my parents stayed for a few days, then it it was half term. School started back this week but my husband has been off sick with a virus. There have been lots of family gubbins, stresses, worries, grr’s. I had this idea that if I worked my way through my list of Things To Do I would clear space for writing and get back to it. My list is never ending. I cross one thing off and add two or three. I forgot that there is no space. I have to ignore all the jobs and write, dammit. So, today I sit down to do just that, words on a screen, no big deal. Only my health issues are flaring and my head is full of fucked up fuzz and not much else.

I shouldn’t have stopped.

But. Whispering somewhere in me is the idea that maybe I just shouldn’t have started.

There’s a gazillion writers out there, I’m not special, I’m not any whoop whoop talent. I’m out of energy. What if I stopped trying to write The Novel and just relaxed, played with words, enjoyed the creative process a bit more. But, then I’d hate myself for not finishing. God, I hate myself anyway, and I particularly hate that I sound so fucking whiny.

Best get on.

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