Last week, I took a break from life online and boy, did it feel good.
While Becky and Huck were on Spring Break, I decided to take the chance to step back from all that keeps me busier than one of those Nasonex bees and try to relax a bit.
Not that there's much room for relaxation with three kids underfoot. No, last week was more of an ignore-the-world week, the kind of week I remember as standard from when Becky and Huck were tiny together. A week where the schedule ran on my clock, not the world's.
I still had a meeting to attend as well as sports practices for Becky and Huck. But I wasn't running hither and yon around town all day and I spent little time in bloggyland.
I read a book - start to finish. This one, to be exact:
It was good, but not as earth-shatteringly good as the first one in the series, Wicked. It's hard to be dazzled twice.
I also had a chance to hang out with some of my favorite bloggers at our almost-monthly blogging meetup. There's nothing like chatting with people who speak your language and share your passion. I'm thankful to everyone who made it and missed those who couldn't.
I came away from our meetup with recharged blogging batteries. It's inspiring to hear about the success of others on the wild, wild Web, even if I'm still uncertain about how much I want to pursue that type of success. Example: I'm approved for a bunch of affiliate programs for this blog and still haven't added any links yet. My ability to procrastinate is astounding.
I'm trying to balance (oh, that awful, loaded-with-frustration word, balance) blogging with writing. It occurred to me that if I'd kept at writing a page a day on any one of my novel attempts for as long a period as I've been blogging (since Fall 2007), I'd have easily finished something.
Which led me to wonder about why writing here for my blogs seems like no big deal - really, I sit down and let the words fly here - but writing a novel, one page at a time, is so loaded with fear and a sense of doomed failure for me. It's hard to muster the courage to even start, much less sustain a disciplined effort.
I do know the why. Writing books is that lifelong dream I've carried around in a pretty little box my whole life, so long, in fact, that I'm starting to feel like my own cliche. That pretty little dream matters so very much to me because I've cultivated it for so long.
Blogging, however much I enjoy it, feels temporary; I still have days when I consider pulling the plug on this blog.
But what keeps me typing here should (I hope) serve to motivate me to write as well.
I keep blogging for them, for Becky, Huck, and mouthy little Tom. I steal moments away from the day to set down words here for them to find one day, for them to read again and again and realize that Mom wasn't just the person who fed us and kissed us and sat our rears in timeout on the bottom stair.
Mom was/is Marianne and she was/is pretty darn amazing.
If I'm doing this for them, surely I can write a book for them as well.
This is what I'm telling myself; whether or not it will work remains to be seen.
Do you suffer from perennial Writer's Doubt? How do you push back the fear?
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