Writing has always been an escape for me and an escape for the stories in my head.
As I mentioned in my December blog (jeez, I unloaded all that way back in December?), 2021 was quite a year. We dealt with ailing elderly parents, the deaths of both of our dads, Covid, and a multitude of other crap. It was…a lot. And although that was months and months ago, I still don’t feel entirely ready to get back on the bike and start working on the new manuscript (which is actually an old manuscript that needs a metric ton of work).
People say, give yourself time. When you’re ready, you’ll know.
But what if I don’t want to be ready? What if working on that second book doesn’t have the same pull the first one did? I look at all that work ahead of me, and I don’t think I have it in me to climb that mountain again. I haven’t kept up with my newsletter, perhaps the easiest task of all - about 500-1,000 words- once a month - but I know that I have nothing to say. If I had a new book to promote, I could tie in some tidbits about it, but I’ve got nothing.
The weirdest part? I don’t feel one ounce of regret over it. Perhaps the same way, I don’t care if we ever go to another big concert again, go out to a restaurant, or put on pants.
I have to do that to go to work. I feel that’s enough.
I think about my life pre-pandemic. We were always doing something. The calendar was filled with concerts, museums, get-togethers with friends, art exhibits, dinners out, shopping, and non-stop going. Dang, I must’ve had FOMO (fear of missing out) because I was always searching for things to do. When the pandemic hit, I thought, okay, so we don’t do any of those things for a while. Once things are normal again, we’ll get back to our routine. Then a few weeks became months, and a few months became over two years. And now, I don’t want to go back…to any of it.
For one, I don’t care.
I’m not saying I’m going to burn my old manuscripts in the backyard fire pit any time soon. Or that I don’t want ever to see friends again. I’m sure I’ll go to another concert again someday (actually there’s Father John Misty, September 29th).
I’ve just realized that I’m more than happy to stay in my house with my hubby, our dogs, all our streaming channels, and my books. I’m becoming a hermit, and my dream is to live in the middle of nowhere.
Some would say this sounds like depression. I would counter that by saying, “Nah, I’m actually very happy.”
Maybe even happier than I have ever been.
A few years ago, I read a book by Mark Manson called “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck,” and I didn’t get it back then. Probably because, at the time, I still gave too many f*cks. If you’re not offended by f*cking curse words, I highly recommend reading his blog to give you the gist of where I’m coming from. I have reserved my f*cks for what is truly important to me now.
I can stay in all weekend to read an entire book or clean the house (which, shockingly, I enjoy now more than ever), never getting out of my pajamas. Our nightly ritual of binging TV series fills me with such joy, whereas the thought of going out makes me tired just thinking about it.
Two other things that bring me joy are work and travel. I know what you’re thinking. Both mean going in public, and I just said I’m thriving in my hermit status. But I have a job where I do the things I love and get to be creative regularly. And travel is something that, even though I have done quite a bit of over the years, I feel I could never fully enjoy myself because there was always anxiety over leaving my dad behind and the guilt that came with his ailing state of health. Now, I’m pretty much able to jet off at a moment’s notice to see the world. I’ve already got five trips planned for this year, and we just got back from the best Vegas trip I think we’ve ever taken.
All of that stuff, I give a f*ck about.
All of that…is enough.
I’ve resigned myself to being okay with not doing anything for a while. Maybe for a long, long while.
I am content. And maybe that’s what I have been searching for all along.
