I've been avoiding this blog post for a long time now. Months. The reason for this is because I haven't wanted to lose hope. I haven't wanted to vocalize my fears. I certainly didn't want them in black and white. But I'm starting to feel the pinch. I'm hearing that little voice in the back of my head that tells me to be honest. Honest. True. Brutal.
I can't write. It's not that I feel I don't have the ability. I simply can't put words onto paper in a story fashion. Just can not do it. My ideas are all stale. I don't feel that passion. The urge to return to my characters...gone. The glimmer of a new setting, a better dialog or a new conflict is not even present.
I'm usually ever optimistic. I usually know that I'm in a rough patch, a stressful place, a disorganized mess. I don't have the answers this time. I can't pin it down. I'm a little lost, friends. I don't feel like a writer. *tear*
The really brutal truth is that I'm not feeling like myself in very many areas lately. I'm feeling a little crowded. At the risk of sounding like a person with Multiple Personality Disorder; it seems that too many personalities are fighting for the stage. I work at a job that requires a constant smile, something friendly to say at any given moment. I do well at this job, as I'm naturally outgoing and sociable. I'm a wife to a man with a painful disability and while I excel at this job, he's in more pain each day with juggling three kids, one of them more demanding than the worst customer I've ever had, but we need the financial addition badly. I'm losing my ability to be a good friend, I feel it daily. How much longer can I expect my kids to deal with half of my attention? How long can I deal with feeling like I'm never alone? I'm never just me.
And don't get me started on all the guilt with the feelings I've described above. How selfish? I'm married, I'm a mother, I'm a waitress, and I used to love to write. Now who am I?