SquarePeg Books

I was sick all last week. Like coughing so hard I was throwing up sick. Like lying on the couch and living the whole day in a partial doze sick. Like writing or checking email is impossible because I have to save what little mental energy I have for checking math homework sick. The only reason a post went up was because I had written and scheduled in advance.

The week before, I spent it all running errands. At least, I think I did. I’m pretty sure I did. I might not have. I can’t remember so well. I do remember a lot of staring and glaring at the screen, going off and grumbling as I tried to free-write my way out of a particularly knotty logical problem I’d set myself up with regarding the rules of my fantasy world.

Anyway, the writing goals failed miserably in the second and third weeks of February.  I started this Monday putting my Ass In Chair (Exercise ball, whatever. I sit on it. Sometimes I wiggle for balance while I frown at what I’ve written and try to figure out where to go next.). Writing occurred. Perhaps not good writing, most definitely writing that will have to be heavily edited before a final product is suitable for public viewing, but writing occurred on the PAIN IN MY ASS STORY Fantasy Book 3 volume 2.

As I write, I can’t help but wonder if it’s the RIGHT thing to do.

Is writing what I want to do? Yes. Definitely. Absolutely. (points for those who get that reference)

Is writing the financially responsible thing to do with family considerations? My parents and extended family don’t think so. I can’t blame them – making a living as a writer is more than a little difficult, and is certainly not guaranteed.  As I write this, my husband, who is currently employed and keeping it all together financially, has said that I should continue to write – no looking for a job, no stressing about a job, no going back to school to get a certificate so I can theoretically more easily acquire a job after 10 years of no job (I’ve been looking for 6 months, and I can tell you the rejections I have gotten are so much bullshit it isn’t even funny – although it makes for good material for Romance Book 2. Yes, those people will appear in that book. Because I’m petty like that.).

“I’m taking care of everything else,” he says. “You just need to write.”

My word count goals for 2019 are 3000 words a week. Monday and Tuesday combined met week 1 and half of week 2’s goal count. I’m hoping today I can keep the count going so I can be back on track by Friday.

I’d worked my way out of the plot-hole and continue to slog ahead. I can only attribute this burst of activity to terror.

I know I’ve said fear is not the greatest motivator, and I still think that. You make critical mistakes when you’re running on fear. You grow to hate what you’re doing because it reeks of fear. You might not even ever want to look at the product of your work because it will always remind you of the fear you experienced while working on it.

But terror is an odd duck. Terror is not quite fear. It’s something a little more primal, I think.

I know people who have been out of work going on 3 years. Talented people. People who KNOW THINGS. People who have spent 20+ years in the professional office environment.

They’re unable to land employment in this town. Some have moved to other localities or even states to take work. One has stayed in the area, stubbornly refusing to leave, with more than 20 years experience doing everything from Secretarial to Database work, and the best she can do is land part-time work at a chain restaurant with a side job of security work. She still has problems paying her bills, and health insurance is a luxury she can’t afford.

If she can’t garner meaningful employment, I doubt my odds are much better.

I don’t have a job, and over the past six months it seems to be ever more painfully obvious I’m not even going to land a part-time retail gig (apparently, I’m over-qualified, while other interviews say my ten years of no employment renders my past experience void). My thoughts about going through a certification program were not met with anything at all approaching acceptance from the husband. “I’ve got this part,” he says. “You need to focus on your dream.”

Thus, the terror. I don’t seem to be able to find a job that pays. He wants me to work on writing and succeed at it.

How can you not feel terror under those circumstances? How can you think, even for a moment, that failure is OK? How can you not sweat over your own performance metrics when your major support system says “no – you have to make this work” regardless of the reasoning?

Does anyone know if sitting on an exercise ball for 6 hours a day hurts your ass? because it’s aching, but I’m not sure why.