I’m supposed to write daily. That’s what the best authors say. I know that I should and since I have re-embraced my creative side, I have been writing more often, but it’s difficult. Dealing with mental illness on a daily basis, even with the meds that are supposed to help, can make it hard to do even the things I love. I can go for weeks without writing, despite how badly I want to just sit at my computer and focus on a story or on getting the words in my head on paper.
Other times, I am a woman possessed. I spend my waking moments vomiting everything in my mind onto a page with a speed that is a little frightening and relieving. I can’t help but feel like I’m unburdening my soul. I wish it were always like this, but it just isn’t.
I will write an hour a day, I promise myself, but then I can’t get out of bed, even for class or work, and I think that I’m a failure because “that’s not what the professionals are doing and you know better and how will you ever get published or read if you aren’t working on something,” my mind chides.
It is important for me to remember that though their advice is sound, what the professionals are doing are what works for them. I’m me. I have my own needs and my own pace. I have my own road to walk. I’ll make it to where they are eventually, but right now, I do what I can. That’s the important part. At least I’m not doing nothing. At least I’m not letting fear of failure keep me from what I love anymore.