Two Words: Life Happens
…and other excuses for not writing
A friend who understands the importance of social media recently reminded me I’ve been remiss in updating my blog. There are many reasons for this, but I’m tired of making excuses. It all boils down to two words: Life Happens.
Last year, I had a similar goal. I was going to figure it all out. I was going to establish an online presence — half-ass check. I was going to write a book and publish it — check. I would have a daily life that didn’t revolve around my now-grown children, aging parents, or writing over twelve hours a day — check. I would say yes when I felt like saying no, and go out when I wanted to stay home — check (sort of). I would ease into this new phase of early retirement, faking it until I resembled the smiling seniors in AARP advertisements.
The book came out in August. I thought this bucket list achievement would be key to making me feel accomplished, motivated, and invigorated. I thought it was the start of a new career and a path out of the darkness, the so-called silver lining of giving up so much of my identity due to health issues. I thought people would read my work and feel connected and heard. I thought I’d feel connected and heard in return. And we’d all live happily ever after.
I’ll save you the real-life drama. If you’ve followed my blog in any of its various iterations, you know much of the details. If not, a little sleuthing will reveal the answers easily enough. See, when I was actively writing, I put it all out there. The good, the bad, and the ugly graced page after page. I shared my health crises and the slow death of my career. I shared my depression when the last kiddo left home. I shared my happy little thoughts and my deepest fears. Writing blogs was a lifeline to other writers, artists, empaths, and insomniacs. I posted the details of my boring little life unabashedly and received validation from readers.
I also garnered a lot of hate. Boy, some folks are real dicks. They hide behind their keyboards and use others’ weaknesses as invisible spears, always aiming for the heart. I internalized the hate directed my way and let it eat away at me in the dead of night. I rose each morning and tried harder to write something these trolls might appreciate, now saddled with insecurities about my level of sharing, my writing skills, and myself as a person. The harder I tried, the more I was freaked out that I’d overshared and people hated me with good cause, meaning more mean comments would come. My favorite is still: “You should do everyone a favor and kill yourself.” I realize now that trying to write my way out of the dark was akin to healing an amputation with a strip of scotch tape.
So, I went silent and worked on the great American novel. I finished it in a few months. Once it was published, I took a break from writing. The whole process was a beast. I was tired of writing and tired of myself. I unpacked the last boxes from a move three years ago and decorated the basement. I bought and trialed exercise equipment like I had a side hustle filming infomercials. I painted bad paintings and Marie Kondoed the shit out of my life and home, room by room. Still, no matter how hard I worked to clear the mental cobwebs, my internal house was a mess.
I thought about the past when similar feelings had crept up under the cover of winter to taunt me. What had I done to fix it? When my marriage failed, I wrote. When each kid left home for adulthood, I wrote. When I turned 40 and my body started a mutiny, I wrote. When my career ended, I wrote even more, making it a self-imposed full-time job. And each time, I felt a little better after sending my words out into the ether to connect with other lost souls. Writing became the answer to who I was when I was no longer a career woman or an active mother, and all my previous hobbies had dried up into dust.
When the holiday blues descended, I knew I had to get back to writing. People without a purpose are sad little souls; I was no exception. I went to a few book signings and realized I had no answers. What is your book about? Blank stare. When is the next book coming out? Blank stare. Are you working on new blogs? Deep breath. I knew I had to find answers.
Just as before, the answer was simple: Life happened. And just as before, there were no excuses. To be a writer, we must write. To be a known writer, we must have a platform and share our thoughts, processes, and progress. Love or hate, read or invisible, we must do some writerly stuff to remain writers.
Here is my promise this year: I will write more — books, blogs, and dissertations on the best brand of dog poop bags. I will write what I want and feel, caring less about the reactions of others and their hateful rhetoric. I will radically accept who I am — the good, bad, and ugly — and respect you if you decide you’re not interested. But if you are, and I hope you are, please keep reading, commenting, and reminding me I’m not alone.
