Finally, summer has begun for me. And, finally, things have settled down to the point where I can work. I’ve sent in my daughter’s grades and checked and packed away the rest of the schoolwork. Since then, we’ve camped and swum and visited the library. We’ve compacted summer into this hot space of June, and now I have a few days, at least, to breathe.
For the last few days, I’ve written enough words to burn holes in my brain. And, yet, for all that, my writing, in the sense of career, feels like the house in the image above. But I should tell you a little secret about that house. That’s mine. It’s my first house after years of living with my family of six, cramped into a single wide. It’s mine, and I’m sitting under the roof as I write this post, and it’s difficult to remember the anxiety I felt then, when the clouded sky spilled through the trusses.
And what about the time before it had trusses? The house was only a concept at one time, a drawing my husband hastily scrawled on paper in a fit of inspiration. I’m guessing approximately eight years passed between the initial inspiration and the completion of the stuccoed structure, with curtains hung and bedding moved over.
I don’t know exactly where I’m at in my writing career. I’m way beyond the hastily scrawled drawing. I’ve laid a foundation, built walls, and added a second story. But I still suffer that queasy sensation of looking up and viewing only sky.
I don’t like to write about writing on this blog. I don’t. Today, however, my mind is unable to work out anything else. I can see the sky! I’m up in the air, staring up and wishing for completion, even though the view is lovely from up here. It’s hard to keep writing books and more books to fill this uncapped space, while continuously wishing for a roof and finishing work. The view may be lovely, but…
How do you keep yourself going? How does anybody?
All my energy has leaked out the top. I’ll back away from my computer now, slowly, slowly, and I’ll find a temporary cap and refill my spaces.