The breath of fresh air you felt last week came from my disappearance from the internet. As our staff grew smaller and smaller, and I begged for more and more hours for more moola towards my upcoming move, I not only was working constantly, I also got the dreaded cold that was flying around.
It shut my brain off.
I was dumber, less efficient in many areas. But I also had a better time focusing on a single action before me. Having been consumed with angry thoughts and pessimistic outlooks, this was a nice change. Even though I was tired and miserable, making a lot of stupid mistakes, I felt a great deal of tension release from me.
My last day was Friday. It was bittersweet as I made fun of my coworkers and cheerfully ran up to them to shout how many hours I had left. I had been feeling a great deal better in the last few weeks, even though I had been working so much, getting nothing done creatively, and sleeping the majority of the time.
Yesterday was my first real day off in a long while, and of course I ended up doing a whole lot of nothing. I started projects here and there, but I was tired, uncomfortable, and so kept bringing up Facebook and Reddit which gave me a look into why I struggled to let go of all of the negativity.
My Facebook feed is filled with articles and arguments on sexism, politics, and the general complaints about artists and writers. Drama galore. Reddit Relationships is nothing more than gossip about selfish and controlling people, which is not something my hopeless, fragile mind needs right now.
As much as I try to stay away from romance, it tends to find me. Love is everywhere in our society; you can’t read a book or show that doesn’t talk about romance or, bare minimum, sex. Loneliness and the seeking of bonds, attention, and basic acceptance is a paramount part to the vast majority of stories we tell each other. And why not? Isn't that what telling a story tends to be about?
On Friday, I tried to blog and found my thoughts lacking. I didn’t want to say anything I’d been thinking, to portray myself in that light, and what’s more, I wasn’t exactly inspired by my negativity. In fact, I’m absolutely sick of it. Be funny for once, damn it.
No. Humor is for people with perspective, and I have none.
So I didn’t get my newsletter out on time, my Story of the Wyrd up, or my webcomic or blog. Each time I sat there to work it proved so completely hard to just focus for even a few minutes.
How is it that I managed to get up at three in the morning for a fourteen-hour shift, six days a week doing mindless labor and yet be far happier when I left than when I sat at home and tried to write?
I recently picked up a book that I had been planning on reading for a while, totally enamored with the beginning. Originally, I had read a short story by the author and fell absolutely in love with her. It was a part of my idea behind Stories of the Wyrd—Offering up free fiction could potentially sell books. Yet, when I picked it up again, I was not impressed this time. The book was lacking, immature, and less interesting.
But I read it. Quickly even.
The fact that I struggled to find anything to interest me in the last few months (year, even), suggested that it was me, not them, but I felt this book proved that pretty well. My difference of opinion on the part that I even read could be attributed to age—I feel I’ve changed the most from 24 to 27—but also because I was just in a bad place and didn’t like anything. Because I couldn’t focus. Because everything reminded me of something bad. Because I lacked hope. I was swimming through the motions. I struggled to think.
My work in the restaurant kept my mind just busy enough. Too challenging and I could keep my mind on it. Couldn’t enjoy it. Too easy and my mind would flood into all my other issues.
Writing takes a surprising amount of focus. Usually blogging less so. I speak my mind and it generally doesn’t shut up. Yet as I tried to work on a post, I just couldn’t.
Writing is habitual, I think. The more you do it, the easier it is. And I haven’t been doing it.
I leave for New York City in exactly one week. I have little plans other than immediate and even fewer expectations. I don’t want them. I am keeping my mind open to possibilities and hope to figure out what I’m looking for. That’s about it.
I’m reading through my working manuscript one last time, and the absence of cringing, confusion, and typos few and far between, I think draft eleven is enough for now. I plan on putting it out there to agents before I pack up my car and head out to my new life on my 27th birthday.