Today I had a moment. I realised I couldn’t carry on the way I was going. I thought, okay, I’ll blog tonight, something to the effect of “I’m putting this blog on hiatus for a while because, let’s face it, I have nothing fun or entertaining or informative to say lately and no one wants to read me whinging about my life, or lack thereof.”
In case you’re wondering, this is not that post.
I then realised that I could put the blog on hiatus if I wanted to, but what was I then going to do if I released something? What if that something was only a couple of months away? (Hint: it isn’t.) I could hardly only post when I had something to shout about. No one would be listening. I’d be shouting into a void. No one would know who I was! Not exactly a prime candidate for a publishing contract and/or hordes of fans.
Then I thought, well, maybe I should just give up on everything. And just…
That thought quickly petered out. I could no more stop chatting about crap online than I could stop writing, and the day I stop writing is the day my ghost gets eaten by a billion year old neutrino.
In layman’s terms, ain’t gonna happen.
And then, I got depressed. Because seriously, this shit is getting me down!! I work my arse off all damn day to get yelled at by people who think I’m their personal whipping girl just because I happened to be the one who picked up the phone. And if I don’t write I’ll never have the option to leave that for something else, as opposed to the option to just leave. But if I carry on there I won’t write because I’m so damn tired when I get home. Tired and emotionally exhausted and waaaaah waaaaaah waaaaaaah pass me the godsdamned chocolate.
Yeah, I got angry at that point. Not angry at myself. That’s not productive or conducive to a good working relationship with the Muse. Nor was I really angry at the people I had to deal with over the phone today. Or every other day. No, I was angry at a culture which tells me I should be happy to have a job which makes me cry on a regular basis. I was angry that members of my own family think I should be grateful for the aforementioned job just because it puts money in the bank. I was angry that I’d bought into that.
But most of all I was angry because I remembered that before, when I’ve hated my jobs, I wrote. A LOT.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate my job. But I don’t want to do my job at the expense of my writing. I know what I want to do with my life and it’s not get yelled at by near-total strangers on a daily basis. There needs to be space in my life for writing.
Guess what? Getting sad wasn’t creating that space.
It was FILLING it. With tears and fatigue and impotent silence.
Anger creates that space. But it has to be the right kind of anger. Anger at the world for not acknowledging that I have the right to work towards my dreams is good. Anger at myself is not, so I’m not about to beat myself down with thoughts of, “No one’s stopping you!” and “You could be there now if you’d only believed in yourself” and “No one’s going to do it for you!”. No, they’re not, and I could, and again, they’re not. But the correct response to those things is not to get angry at myself, because that will only make me sad.
The correct response is to get angry at the culture that tells me I have to do it all by myself and then laughs at me for believing I can.
Because I do believe I can. And the world around me should have a bit more fucking respect for that, to be perfectly frank.
But to hell with the world.
I’m doing this for me now. Not to prove anything to anyone, not even myself. Because I already know I can do it, so there’s nothing to prove.
But I will do it.
And I will do it well.
And it’ll be AWESOME