updates? kind of?
And here I thought that I would be a much more functional human being once the Kinglet was enrolled in school, and I have all this *cough* time on my hands to do the things I want/have to do. Sadly, this is still not true, half a year later.
I wrote a story (two, if you count flash), polished several others, and made *cough* serious headway with the second draft of COVENANT. I've had some lovely publications, made appearances, won an award and an honorable mention, enjoyed some press, networked like crazy, and... stuff. I even wrote a couple of poems (gosh).
I put a lot of myself into my part-time job, helping to keep a worthy community art group running in spite of lots of internal shakeups and artsy drama. I'm part of an initiative there to bring more writing-related programs to the community, including (yay!) an open mic event set to start in a few short weeks, and (maybe!) a discussion series with some high-profile local literary artists.
I started doing yoga again, lost a little weight, took care of some lingering minor health problems, and continue struggling with the major one. I've continued to be an advocate for my twice-exceptional son, helping him navigate the school system to the best possible advantage. I've mended my relationship with my parents, maintain *cough* new and old friendships with the many talented and wonderously crazy people in my social circles, and I fall more in love with my husband every day. I regained some of my broken faith, and strive for peace and gratitude.
Yet I feel like dren much of the time. There's so much more I want to do and be that I'm not. I want so very much to say my life has balance, but it just doesn't.
Mostly, it comes down to what I'm not writing. That, and brain chemistry.
I tell myself I'm being too hard on myself: I can't control a creative slump any more than I can control a downswing of the mood disorder roller coaster. All I can do is ride it out. Still. Ugh. It sucks big hairy ones.
I've started smoking again, in an effort to be *cough* healthier. Counter-intuitive, maybe, but it is working...ish. After a period of *cough* weeks of staring at my computer screen, cutting and pasting sometimes but not actually *writing* anything, I've managed to hit roughly 250 words for the last few days. 250 being the absolute minimum I can do without feeling like I'm doing nothing. 250 being an inspirational goal, actually, for the creatively-impaired. Added together, I've written a 5-page short story, a little bit of meta-flash (flash fiction about my own thoughts, fairy-tale style), and a wacky little poem based on my Words With Friends moves.
So that's something.
On the downside, I've *cough* started smoking again. So.
I wrote a story (two, if you count flash), polished several others, and made *cough* serious headway with the second draft of COVENANT. I've had some lovely publications, made appearances, won an award and an honorable mention, enjoyed some press, networked like crazy, and... stuff. I even wrote a couple of poems (gosh).
I put a lot of myself into my part-time job, helping to keep a worthy community art group running in spite of lots of internal shakeups and artsy drama. I'm part of an initiative there to bring more writing-related programs to the community, including (yay!) an open mic event set to start in a few short weeks, and (maybe!) a discussion series with some high-profile local literary artists.
I started doing yoga again, lost a little weight, took care of some lingering minor health problems, and continue struggling with the major one. I've continued to be an advocate for my twice-exceptional son, helping him navigate the school system to the best possible advantage. I've mended my relationship with my parents, maintain *cough* new and old friendships with the many talented and wonderously crazy people in my social circles, and I fall more in love with my husband every day. I regained some of my broken faith, and strive for peace and gratitude.
Yet I feel like dren much of the time. There's so much more I want to do and be that I'm not. I want so very much to say my life has balance, but it just doesn't.
Mostly, it comes down to what I'm not writing. That, and brain chemistry.
I tell myself I'm being too hard on myself: I can't control a creative slump any more than I can control a downswing of the mood disorder roller coaster. All I can do is ride it out. Still. Ugh. It sucks big hairy ones.
I've started smoking again, in an effort to be *cough* healthier. Counter-intuitive, maybe, but it is working...ish. After a period of *cough* weeks of staring at my computer screen, cutting and pasting sometimes but not actually *writing* anything, I've managed to hit roughly 250 words for the last few days. 250 being the absolute minimum I can do without feeling like I'm doing nothing. 250 being an inspirational goal, actually, for the creatively-impaired. Added together, I've written a 5-page short story, a little bit of meta-flash (flash fiction about my own thoughts, fairy-tale style), and a wacky little poem based on my Words With Friends moves.
So that's something.
On the downside, I've *cough* started smoking again. So.