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I am a frustrated writer.
I promised to continue blogging as I marched toward my goal of finishing my draft by September 30th, that if I could post weekly to my fanfiction story, surely I could do as much for my blog.
two three weeks ago.
And my fanfiction story has been updated but once.
Oddly enough, my non-posting is not the result of a lack of ideas. I have several topics for interesting blog posts, epiphanies and anecdotes from which I think someone else might benefit.
Or at the very least be amused.
But I have yet to write them, and that failure inspires the familiar urge to forsake my writing dreams and content myself with the world of fanfiction, a place where I am already established and have no shortage of ideas to present one chapter at a time whenever the mood strikes.
I could do that.
I could totally do that.
But I don’t want to do that.
I want to be a writer.
A professional, published writer.
A professional, published writer with titles on bookshelves bearing her name on the spines—lowercase save my middle name, if you please.
A professional, published writer of fiction and non with a loyal following of readers who get me.
And I know I cannot do that if I let frustration overtake me.
I know all writers struggle with this frustration—the dichotomy between what we are doing and what we think our ideal version of ourselves should be doing—and that knowledge comforts me.
But I don’t know if other writers often fall into crippling depressions when that dichotomy becomes too great, or more to the point, when their focus on that dichotomy overshadows everything else. I don’t know if other writers run the risk of shutting down completely, losing interest in the world around them as they lament their lot and blame themselves for it all.
But I do.
It has been a decade since the last depression took me under but only seven months since its last attempt. This depression is a familiar foe, one I can defeat if vigilant and must defeat if my dreams are ever to exist beyond my active imagination.
But seasons like this where change occurs and my adjustment period is longer and more challenging than I assumed are its catalyst. This is where the cycle begins.
And where I must pause and regroup to prevent its resurgence.
This is not the way it was supposed to go, certainly not the way I expected to feel about these anticipated life-changes. And therein lies part of the rub. The biggest recent change was not only planned but prayed for. I requested this situation, craved it for months. And now I find myself ill-adjusting to and frustrated by its presence.
And berating myself for my reaction.
But that’s okay. Because self-flagellation or not, I am yet posting this message, wading through my emotional minutiae to produce something (hopefully) useful. I am acknowledging my feelings, not hiding them beneath false smiles and forced enthusiasm. And I am putting my issues on notice that they will not get the best of me this time.
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And as I continue to make such choices, to brave the rapids despite the turbulence, I will find myself safely on the other side of this frustration with a wealth of experience on which I can hang my tattered hat.