At this moment, I’m resting. I had been going nonstop for four hours: school, errands, cleaning, hastily wolfing down food so I wouldn’t slide onto a floor or implode with a hangry attitude. Now I’m sitting down, and in a few minutes I’ll have to jump back up again for a very busy afternoon.
I was stewing a bit on writing tactics. Where do I go from here? Should I sign up for this one publishing class? (I did.) Should I run forward a bit with this new short story I’m working on? (Of course.) But I admit I’ve been really in the weeds lately. Had I waited too long to go forward with everything? Time and trends change. Self doubt creeps in.
But I stopped myself and realized why I was doing this. I built a world. Not just one, but several worlds, in fact. I spent late childhood and my teens and my adult life working on building all of this. School and a career (and changing a career) kept it on the back burner (although my writing skills advanced all of those). Yet still I worked on it, when I could. I realize now that I could not have stopped, because writing is what I’ve known most of my life. It helped me get through so many turbulent times. It gave me an outlet when I had no other. It gave me a way in which to describe the places and the people I had dreamed up. Now I have more options, but the writing proceeds. It is as much of me as the fingers I use to type this. It is as much of me as the art I have also made. It is as much of me as the foods I make for those I love. It is, simply, me.
So while the journey rollicks a bit, still it wends onward. I will get to where I want to be eventually, though the method may not be what I anticipated. I built a world, and now I want to share it.