(Photo credit: thorinside)
There’s an underlying need to write. I want the ability to sit down at my laptop, regardless of surroundings and type until my heart’s content. I want the ability to get everything out that goes through my head and because of this I go through bouts of depression. Depression which in turn only fuels the writer’s block. Why can’t I just say these things. Everything becomes jumbled once the qwerty comes into eye view and I am completely blank.
A reason I keep at this is because it is challenging in ways that few things are. Love/Relationships, Money and Religion being the other most complicated for me to date. The reward once I complete a chapter or an entry is immeasurable. It fills me with a certain bit of bravado that I feel in my step. Writing is akin to chiseling away at a rock hoping that eventually your dents and marks will form a string of curves and shapes pleasing to mind and eye. I chisel away daily and though sometimes nothing is actually written the thoughts are there. It’s a hunger. A hunger for greatness, not fame or notoriety No dreams of Peabody’s, Pulitzer’s, or New York Time’s Best Seller’s Lists (though that list is complete rubbish at this point). Just to be great.
I have always been interested in dress up, role-playing, and alternative lifestyles. I’ve been bold enough to step outside of myself and into the light of those scenes on a few occasions in my life. Most of them being when I was still in or fresh from high school. Recently though– before my move — there were opportunities to re-enter a part of that world thanks to events at a few clubs on Chicago’s north-side and people I’d known growing up. The fascination was still there but beyond that I no longer wanted to watch, I wanted to take part.
So, I research and try to gain as much information as I can. Insight and a door opening in the right direction and research at late hours. (Why does the internet seem to move faster at 1am?) All the while trying to see clearly through the stars of having a new idea, of something that I would actually love to do. Beyond the thrill of every session, there’s the growth I want to experiencing by taking on different roles. It would be challenging and exciting. Something new, and outside of the ordinary. I am just not one for working a monotonous job, something I like to lie to myself about time to time. But that’s a rant for another day.
To say I’m am fully adjusted to my new home would be inaccurate. I’m still getting used to the noises, creaks and snores of my new home. There are times when I am desperately missing the familiarity of my old house and routine. I’ve made enough headway to convince myself that I’ve done something right. The issue is to further develop my plan and execute it.
I’m not working a job that I see myself spending more than a year working, purely to plant some roots and hunt for what I want.
(So many I statements.)
Development of the story and all of its associated parts is moving forward with a good deal of momentum. There’s a lot to edit, not including new chapters. But I’m excited for the possibilities.
Keeping busy is how I’ve adjusted. I make sure all my work finished, all my paperwork is in (and there are lots when you move clear across the country) … At times I feel overwhelmed, just enough to know that I am still settling in.
This requires a bit more reflection than I assumed in the beginning.
In the reflection it requires the understanding of my idiosyncrasies, and just how short my patience has become. I’m too young to feel this bothered by people. My worry of approval should apply to my work. There’s so much of it..
My writing has suffered and because of the move it’s been pushed even farther back until recently. I am the Queen of procrastination and I’ve put off things until I’ve forgotten them. I’ve given myself deadlines and not held myself accountable.
I admit this “out loud” …
This is just the beginning. Pen in hand, still adjusting to the time change, I’ll figure this out.
That moment it all clicks. It’s a familiar click. One that’s happened over and over. I drag this sound with me and take it out of my pocket once every few months. When the fog of depression clears the click sounds and I see it for a minute. I see the shore. Motivation is a fleeting sensation when dealing with depression. It’s an ongoing battle that sometimes leaves you retreating to your bed for days, blinds closed, sweat pants on, mindless TV murmuring in the background. Or you soak into the musty silence of your bedroom. This click happens just as the you push the blankets back and you feel like a human again. Awake from a restless sleep that left you more tired than before. I’ve learned over time to seize this moment as soon as possible. Manifesting several things at once, lest the actions subside and I find myself in a head space hard to reason through. One question is constant – How long will this time last?
Spur of the moment, middle of November, I looked at my bank account and decided to move across the country. Moving is something I’ve always wanted to do. It’s something I’ve dreamed about since I was about 10 years old. Living anywhere else but Chicago seemed perfect for me. I’ve been fortunate enough to have traveled to either coast and many spots in between. Each place I’ve been to, I’ve pictured living in. Some sat better than others, but upon visiting California (a place I said I’d never go) and it just … It made sense. Avoiding all clichés possible. Events fell into place that put me on this path, a window of opportunity had stared me in the face for a while.
Now I’m attempting to put my whole life in three suitcases. I tried two, that was a dream. I’m giving things away, selling things, and leaving a lot behind in my mother’s house. In between panic attacks induced by the sheer amount of clothing I own (but never seem to wear, what the fuck?) and running through the game-plan I have in my head, I’m kind of feeling nostalgic. It’s as if I’m viewing this city through a different filter when I travel through it. It hugs me with its cold arms and I hug back. There’s a safety in knowing where I am, anywhere in this city. But there’s a nagging feeling that that safety has a strangle hold on my life. So now I pack.
I pack and give away. Realizing how I’ve let some of clothing go beyond repair for even the most seasoned seamstress. I have accumulated a lot of things I never planned on wearing. All the episodes of Hoarders run through my head and I load up one trash bag which gives birth somehow to two others.
One thing this has shown me is that goals have a way of leading you through uncomfortable times to reach them. And people drop like flies through those times.