End of July check-in
Well, I'm going to try to check in once a week. We'll see how well I do...anyway, things are going well at work. Registration has not begun yet (which means I can still breathe), so I got to take today off (worked out, finished watching "The Mormons"--a fascinating documentary that Frontline produced, read some more of Augusten Burrough's POSSIBLE SIDE EFFECTS, another bizarre set of essays from this bizarre but brilliant writer, and am waiting for the heavy rains to arrive). It's been really humid in Boston, but unfortunately the air conditioner is in the living room, not in the bedroom, so sleeping is uncomfortable at best (the fan doesn't help much). I promised not to complain, however, b/c this past winter was so horrible (I thought so, anyway), so I'll deal with the heat and appreciate the less humid, sunny days which are due to arrive later this week. My dad and I are going to the Red Sox game this Thursday, and the weather is supposed to great (sunny, 80s), plus Tim Wakefield is pitching (I'm a big Wake fan), so it should be a fun day. We'll see how things play out at work, with the redesignation of several employees; I'm hopeful. The new TV is wonderful, I'm not bingeing, and yet, and yet...I feel this sense of sadness. I guess it's something I'll always have to contend with. The ups and downs are just the way I am.
Last night was just strange; I felt oddly anxious last night (a scratched DVD, or two, should NOT have worried me so much, though I did worry that I might have to buy a new DVD player, and I am trying to save money that I do not want to spend money on electronics). I kept spilling drinks, was sure there was a mouse or something in the kitchen--this is actualy possible--and couldn't focus. Okay, this all sounds like petty whining, and I don't mean it to. I am just trying to get a grip on my need to spend, eat,and exercise excessively (my knees are aching, so walking is OUT, at least for a while), and I am not writing. At all. Not one bit. And I don't want to. I just don't. Or I do but I'm not. And I'm beating myself up about it, which isn't helping. The more I feel upset about not writing, the more likely I am not to write, and so on. It's a vicious cycle. I think I just need to chill out and write again when I'm ready to. I don't like that I feel as if writing defines me, as if my not writing makes me less significant a person. I wrote a poem (not a good one, I have to admit ) called FRAUD a few years ago, about how insignificant I felt and how I was just faking my way through improv (I wasn't good at it, but I tried) and life (which is just too difficult to get into; too much baggage). Well, I don't think I'm a hack playwright, but it's tough, and sometimes it's tougher, and what's the point of forcing it? You do it b/c you need the money (and not many can sustain themselves that way, at least not through playwrighting) or b/c it feels fulfilling and you enjoy the process (and maybe the end result as well, the satisfaction you receive when you complete a piece). Well, that's not the case right now. It's just anxiety provoking.
So I won't write, not now. I can come back to it. Of course, I feel as if I *won't*, which is why I desperately want to enroll in a playwrighting course with structured assignments, b/c that way at least I'll have incentive to write (and assignments, of course). What if I *don't* write again for weeks, or months, or more? Does that make me a lesser person? A less interesting, less creative one? The answer is no, but it feels as if it's yes. So I struggle with my insecurities about myself and try to analyze why I'm not writing, and the end result is that I still am not writing and I'm also upset about it, compounding the problem. I must look at this like a break, not an end. I keep trying to. I hope by the time I get there, I'm ready to write again. I'll keep you posted.
Last night was just strange; I felt oddly anxious last night (a scratched DVD, or two, should NOT have worried me so much, though I did worry that I might have to buy a new DVD player, and I am trying to save money that I do not want to spend money on electronics). I kept spilling drinks, was sure there was a mouse or something in the kitchen--this is actualy possible--and couldn't focus. Okay, this all sounds like petty whining, and I don't mean it to. I am just trying to get a grip on my need to spend, eat,and exercise excessively (my knees are aching, so walking is OUT, at least for a while), and I am not writing. At all. Not one bit. And I don't want to. I just don't. Or I do but I'm not. And I'm beating myself up about it, which isn't helping. The more I feel upset about not writing, the more likely I am not to write, and so on. It's a vicious cycle. I think I just need to chill out and write again when I'm ready to. I don't like that I feel as if writing defines me, as if my not writing makes me less significant a person. I wrote a poem (not a good one, I have to admit ) called FRAUD a few years ago, about how insignificant I felt and how I was just faking my way through improv (I wasn't good at it, but I tried) and life (which is just too difficult to get into; too much baggage). Well, I don't think I'm a hack playwright, but it's tough, and sometimes it's tougher, and what's the point of forcing it? You do it b/c you need the money (and not many can sustain themselves that way, at least not through playwrighting) or b/c it feels fulfilling and you enjoy the process (and maybe the end result as well, the satisfaction you receive when you complete a piece). Well, that's not the case right now. It's just anxiety provoking.
So I won't write, not now. I can come back to it. Of course, I feel as if I *won't*, which is why I desperately want to enroll in a playwrighting course with structured assignments, b/c that way at least I'll have incentive to write (and assignments, of course). What if I *don't* write again for weeks, or months, or more? Does that make me a lesser person? A less interesting, less creative one? The answer is no, but it feels as if it's yes. So I struggle with my insecurities about myself and try to analyze why I'm not writing, and the end result is that I still am not writing and I'm also upset about it, compounding the problem. I must look at this like a break, not an end. I keep trying to. I hope by the time I get there, I'm ready to write again. I'll keep you posted.
posted by Sue B at 9:18 AM
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