It’s pouring down outside and that might just be the best part of this day. Of course, I might be wrong, but the last few weeks have been a hailstorm of bad news, the world coming to an end, things going wrong at the worst possible time, and I’m just exhausted. I’ve not been able to keep up with work, with writing, with blogging, with sleep, with me, and all of it is just … too much.
I know you’re supposed to put your happy-face on with social media, and always put a positive spin on things to make yourself look blessed and successful but I just can’t. You’ll never see me posting pouting selfies and you’ll never see me posting elegant detail photos of my lovely home or sumptuous renderings of my latest gourmet meal. That’s just not me. That’s just not what my life looks like.
My life is not very Instagram-worthy, I’m afraid. It’s mostly just a bunch of Tuesdays, a neverending parade of work and obligations and occasionally I have a good day, get some writing done, or don’t burn dinner or manage a good night’s sleep and that is the closest I’ll ever get to happy.
I’m not hardwired for happiness, apparently. And that’s fine. But when I run into a cluster of difficulties–computer related, health related, work related, publishing related–I find myself without much of a margin. When you thought that the only way things could go was up and they just keep going down, it really messes with your internal compass.
But I know this. This happens from time to time. I call it my Free-falling days. I have a mental image of a well where I disappear down into the darkness from time to time. For no particular reason, apart from misfiring synapses or perhaps it was something I ate. And that well is a pretty bad place, since the wifi sucks and I won’t be able to write and I won’t be able to keep up with my blogs and promos and my release schedule is no longer even remotely realistic.
These are the days when I decide that I don’t have what it takes to become a writer and I might as well just quit. And that’s ok. The idea of giving up doesn’t scare me any longer. I’ve quit so many times that I know it won’t stick. I’ll come back to this, to the blog, to my books, to Konrad and to Lee and to Liva (who might change her name to Riva, I’m not sure). Maybe next week. Maybe next year. It depends on how deep the well is, this time. But I’ll be back.