SquarePeg Books

So, there’s this totally accurate statistic I read somewhere on the internet a few years back, about the average publishing age of women vs. men.

Women publish fictional novels at a later point in life, typically. Not all of them, obviously; just a notable amount. Almost as though the majority of women are taking care of everyone else before we take our turn.

Anyhooo…

Depression, anxiety, shit working schedules, the economy almost forcing you into bankruptcy (twice), pregnancy, twins, a stroke, two nervous breakdowns, a couple of surgeries, a part-time job, the economy trying to sink again, a death in the family, car troubles, another family member with serious health issues, other extended family members who don’t-want-to-impose-on-you-because-really-i’m-fine-so-you-don’t-have-to-worry-about-me, ^teenagers^, an impending sense of shrinking mortality, a re-assessment of life-long goals every two weeks, the impending failure of a major appliance, the need to get a plumber out to fix a bathroom because of the last freeze, planning another surgery, gotta figure out how to afford to replace flooring that is very much so in its eld, more car troubles…

Now, Menopause.

Well, not full-on menopause, but it’s starting.

Because, clearly, I have the mental bandwidth for that, while trying to set up a solid foundation to publish and protect my IP…

Who am I kidding? I vacillate back and forth between “just get it done, NOW” and “no, let’s wait for a “more stable” time, at least financially” every three minutes. I bounce between “fuck-it” and “how-can-I-possibly-consider-being-so-irresponsible-with-my-limited-resources”.

I constantly try to create a schedule, a routine, to meet my physical, mental, and creative needs, but I never follow through on them. Sometimes, I have to push them aside to deal with a family issue. Other times, I’m just too lazy to turn off YouTube and get my ass in the chair.

I know some of my environmental cues–“I go in this room, I do this task” and that task turns into a whole circumvention for my plans.

I’ve managed to work around some of them–if all the lights in my shed of craftiness are off EXCEPT for the Christmas lights in my office area, I can steer past the sewing machine, the latch hook project, the floor loom, and the 18 other things that distract me in the 14 feet it takes me to get to the chair and settle in behind the desk. If I turn on the main overhead light before advancing into the shed, it’s all over. I’ll never make it to the writing corner.

Trust me, it’s harder than it sounds, running that gauntlet.

But others seem more insidious, and require a lot more work from my brain. Just looking at the yard, front or back, I’m immediately reminded about how much maintenance needs to be done. Anywhere in the house, I need to cook, clean, organize, repair–and to ignore any of it weighs me down with a sense of guilt. I won’t go over the mental castigation I experience every time I look in a mirror–I’ll bet you already know what that’s like, anyway.

Or maybe I’m blowing this whole thing out of proportion–maybe menopause is the thing I need.

Maybe this is the beginning of my Villainess phase, when I can lean into being a professional bitch, but totally blame it on everything that is out of my control.

Could be fun…