I have been trying really, really hard to evolve. And it is freakin’ hard. For a long time I have been able to write a little bit and get by, because after all I was busy doing other things. Cut me some slack, I told the universe in those days. I’m dancing as fast as I can!
The solution to this “problem” of having more time on my hands, and more time to write must be (a part of my brain apparently thinks) to get busy again. At least, I keep coming up with schemes to be busier, to take classes and read books (and more books). I also come up with brilliant schemes to make money:
- I could monetize my blog!
- I could self-publish a new poetry book and go on tour to sell it! (As if that would make money!)
- I could apply to teach at writing conferences!
- I could write articles as a free-lancer!
- I could become a technical writer!
- I could tutor children at the library!
- I could get a job at the mall selling beautiful shirts!
The list goes on. If I want to write, my brain is apparently rationalizing, then it can come up with a whole bunch of things for me to write. A mystery novel! A mystery novel for children! A book of writing prompts!
I don’t want to rule out teaching at writing conferences, or coaching struggling writers. I think I would get a lot out of doing those things. But I don’t need to busy-ify my life. What I need to do is write the books I’ve been given to write. Write and finish and submit them.
To borrow from yesterday’s blogpost: I need to bloom where I’m planted. Some days I have no idea what that bloom will be. I worry that it is mostly going to be useful for mulch. But that’s the job.