Look at my cat. He is the picture of serenity, is he not? I’m envious.
I’m having a scattered week. My daughter’s out of school. There are day camps and playdates to fill the time but it feels strange forcing structure onto a season that resists routines, that begs for porch-sitting and lemonade and books and swimming and sand between my toes. Woven into this summerlust are little threads of sorrow coming from several outside sources; as much as I try to pull them free they keep getting tangled up in my brain.
All of this adds up to one thing: I don’t feel like writing. I’m unfocused, bouncing from task to task but accomplishing nothing. I’ve half-written four different blog posts. I’ve started and abandoned a first chapter for a new novel. I’ve created a spreadsheet outlining all the final edits I need to do to get The Glass Doll ready to query, but I haven’t started the work yet.
It’s the last one that’s really getting me. That’s what keeps me from tapping into what Oberon’s got going on. The other stuff — disrupted schedules, the lure of sunshine, worries about friends and family — will always be there. I write despite them and I always have. I think it’s fear of finishing, truly finishing, that’s holding me back.
In fact, to test that theory I opened my tidy little revision spreadsheet just now. Yep. Even looking at it puts my stomach in knots. And if I’ve learned anything in 38 years, it’s that there’s no serenity in avoiding the things that scare you. So I’m going to go finish. I’m going to do it right now. Wish me luck?