this is not a test

Getting back to life as I know it.

So far today I wrote 41 words. Two sentences. And I’m already feeling blocked.

Sabaa Tahir calls writer’s block “writer’s pause” instead. I like that. The idea that it will pass, that it’s just a stalled moment, not a complete blockade.

Okay. I took a break and came back. Told myself I could work on this post if I wrote 500 words. I wrote 505. Including that 41. So now here I am.

I want to try and chronicle my writing journey a bit more, so I’m trying out this sort-of-blog-but-not-really-but-kind-of-thing. I love reading writers’ blogs, and I want to be able to trace my journey more and hopefully figure out why it’s so fucking hard for me to do this.

Like, I know it’s hard for everyone. Everyone on Twitter and everything, all of my favorite authors, they ALL post about their struggles with writing. So why does it still feel like I’m the only one failing like this? I write so rarely. I mean really, so rarely. And it hurts. I need to fucking do it more. But I’m also. So tired in every sense of the word. Hurting in different ways. I don’t know how to cross those barriers to make myself do this, and in doing so, also have quality work. Lately, every day, I get excited about writing when I get home. I read blogs and stuff during the day sometimes and sometimes jot down notes if they come to me and I’m all, when I get home, I’m gonna fuckin nail it.

And then the second I sit down on the couch, I’m exhausted to the point of no return. I can fall asleep at 7:30pm. 8pm. 9pm. It’s only cause of Ruby that I don’t sleep straight through til morning for an absolutely ridiculous amount of sleep that will probably only make me more tired.

Ruby makes me act like a human being again, but already I’m finding ways around it. And that makes me so mad at myself.

I guess I’ve always had these bizarre expectations. When you’re a kid and you have structure with your expectations, things happen because they have to — at least for me. I finished high school, went to college, made a bunch of movies, found a job, because I had to. And it’s a weird combo of being incredibly privileged to have had the chance to do all that and sort of not giving myself enough credit for doing those things that lots of people don’t do.

I read somewhere to congratulate yourself, to give yourself credit for your accomplishments — all of them. Even, especially, the tiny ones. One that stuck with me is that paying your rent on time is an accomplishment. Getting out of bed every day is an accomplishment. Some people can’t do those things for whatever reason. Sometimes I can’t get out of bed, either. So when I do, I need to congratulate myself and remind myself that I’m capable of doing these things.

In my privilege, I took for granted the amount of work these things take. I always assumed I’d be published. I’d find someone to spend my life with. I’d be the awesome person I want to be.

Turns out those things don’t happen unless you work for them. Unless YOU make them happen. Unless you choose to do the work to make them happen.

It sounds so devastatingly simple. Like, oh, the sky is blue by the way.

I feel so naive sometimes.

But now that I know, I’m going to do it.

There’s a way to get a dog and act like the same slob who slept too late and never exercised. There’s a way to get around rising to the occasion. There IS a scenario where I wake up years from now and all I’ve done is read fanfiction and eat pasta.

And god I don’t want that to be the case.

So I have to work to change it. It won’t just happen. Everything is a choice. That’s what I learned last year when I very very very briefly started exercising again. It’s just a choice you make when you get home. There’s no magic to it. It’s not inevitable. It’s not an insurmountable mountain, either. It’s just a choice.

I choose the future I want.

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