I’m not alone in being fed up with Mondays, right? Even though I normally only work during the weekend, Monday is still something that smacks me in the face. And it’s not the distance to the next weekend, or the return to work, but the idea of the beginning of a new week.
I can’t remember when I stopped believing in starting things on a Monday or on the first day of a month or a year. It’s been a decade at least. I just know myself. If I won’t commit to something immediately after I get the idea, I will come up with a million excuses to not do it before the exact day of starting. Last year I started NaNoWriMo two weeks ahead of time because I decided I would NaNo and I had a strong WIP.
And however used I get to following my own schedules, weeks and months and years are so deeply ingrained into the culture around me that Mondays still get me down.
I guess it’s the imminent disappointment. Something new starts, which could be however good we make it, but eventually it will just be the same as the previous week and the week before that and the year before that.
I feel this especially strongly because I live in limbo now. I don’t have an active WIP. And my first novel’s manuscript is rotting in the inboxes of various publishing houses. And it will take at least several months before I hear back from them. And if someone wants to publish the text, I need to get back to it. And if no one wants to publish it, I need to get back to it then too.
I guess there are people writing about writing who write about this part of the process. But I have not come across it. And sure, I got back to writing during November, but I didn’t come up with anything that I’d want to spend the next few years on. I do have an idea, but I feel like I need to wait until I can properly get into the whole story.
And yeah, there’s the third reason I haven’t jumped into this new story. I’m afraid. And because of Steven Pressfield, I recognice the reluctance as fear and that’s something inside my mind. I’m afraid that I can’t do it again. The moment when I stood in the fog, trying to peer onto the path of the story with the finished manuscript is so far away in the past that it seems impossible it was like this before. But it was. It was worse. Because I had never finished a manuscript before.
Doesn’t really make it easier to start now. Well, probably it does, but I’m now aware of the change from my current point of view.
And it’s not just the writing either. I feel like I’m always waiting for something. I guess that’s one of the reasons I start everything immediately. Because at least I have power over my own decisions.
I feel like this is not how life should be. Always waiting for something else. Is this how other people feel? Constantly in a limbo. Actually, I was really happy all this year while I was writing. When I am writing, I don’t feel like I’m waiting to become someone else. It’s the one thing that makes sense. I guess it was something I saw myself as doing and it makes me feel fulfilled when I actually get some work done.
I don’t need other people’s validation for my writing – I’m a writer whatever anyone says – but at the moment other people have all the power. I left my job almost three years ago (I’d have left it anyway soon, because it was horrible and not for me) and decided that I’d give my all to writing.
Now I’m working a menial job and building my life around writing.
Oh, I guess this has been some kind of therapy session, because I realise now that I feel powerless because I actually am. At least partly. I’m at the point when I’m just waiting for some stranger to make a decision that affects my whole life.
Ugh. Sorry to be a downer.
I guess my only option to stop feeling like this is to start writing that new text.
I’m drinking a cup of Pukka Three Mint Tea because I got one of those tea advent calendars.