I ended my Sunday check-in stating that I would not fall into the doldrums. Hmm, I miscast the future. I have not fallen into the abyss, but into a sort of unease. I am feeling overwhelmed, stressed, and in response, lazy. This week I have found that as much as I have organized, four out of five things that are sought have not yet been found. It feels less like Christmas to approach the boxes in the garage, but a rerun of the horror story that informed the last days of packing. Also, I have been writing job stuff all day long everyday this week, and I don’t seem as able to change gears in the wee hours.
Mind, I do not hate my day job. Everyone has been supportive, and very nice. I’m good at it, and am recognized as such. I still find myself wishing for mental health days where I could indulge in a Firefly marathon, but I know that if I stayed home, I would spend the day cleaning and organizing. Bleah! I’d rather go to work!
Earlier today, a few lyrics hit me, surprising me that I hadn’t truly heard them before. I do listen to music at work; I can write work stuff pretty easily with it going. My sons make massive fun of the stuff I listen to–Enya, Loreena McKennitt, and somewhat medieval-sounding groups like Mediaeval Baebes. So sue me. 🙂
Two of the lyrics in Enya’s Dreams are More Precious decided to slap me across the face, in contrast to the hundred times they floated across my brain. The first is “Out of the darkness comes a light.” In a more cynical mood, I might have thought, “Yeah, that’s the light of the locomotive bearing down on me.” But I didn’t go there this time. It struck me as the glimmer of dawn, of an understanding of myself and where I wanted to be. Soon after followed the second line, “Dreams are more precious than gold,” making me think about my dreams in contrast to necessity: food, shelter, college tuition, and the ability to keep creditors from lining up on my porch.
Matt Hofferth wrote a post about a patronage system, which intrigued me. Okay, major nerd alert for the rest of this paragraph. In the Middle Ages, patronage for both pictorial and literary arts were very common. I think they were onto something. One of my colleagues used to argue that one had to write what the patron wanted, but I always argued it was the same as having to write technical articles to pay one’s bills, and perhaps writing an ode to some fellow’s wife would be more entertaining. Before I took my current job, I had plans to veer sharply off the path I had been on to pursue some job that would be a little closer to my dream. But the saying that life is what happens while you are making other plans seems to be true for me.
I sometimes regret not taking that veer off the road, but perhaps I am not hungry enough yet. I do know I am much closer than I used to be. I didn’t hesitate to send the log line out for vetting; I will send out the character of the antagonist without a backward glance as well. But I still fritter away time and have to drag myself to the computer in the morning. What am I missing? I remember the days when I had to write, when the surface tension of my skin couldn’t keep it all in. I want those days back. Maybe I am impatient, and want to be where I will be in six months, without having to undergo the pain of transformation.
It has been slow the past few days. I can feel the novel behind my eyeballs, the way one feels a fever sometimes. However, I feel tired and listless, as though it is too much effort to pull it out of the breach into the air. Any suggestions on how to discover again that feeling of needing to plunge into the story in order to breathe fully would be greatly appreciated. I know it is a phase, but it is an extremely annoying phase!
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