writing, during all this

Writing my actual novel tends to take a backseat during times of great stress. I suppose that’s why adults have fewer hobbies than children. I remember a time when every second of my day was eaten up. Dance classes took up most of my free time after school, but I also had Brownies on Mondays, church choir on Thursdays, soccer practice on Tuesdays, cello lessons on Thursdays before choir….

Why do I feel infinitely more burned out now?

I think it’s because little girl me knew how to take a break. I never practiced cello or soccer or my dance routines–of course, I should have practiced all of them, and maybe if I had more time I would have. No, after I left that building, I was done with it for a whole week.

All my activities now are things I should be doing when I want to be relaxing. Writing a novel is something that  feel like should take up every free breath. Learning Spanish, they emphasize, needs to take place every day. Even my job as a summer school teacher is taking up my free moments, if not in work than in anxiety and nerves.

Even “relaxing,” when I manage to do it, is productive. Maybe that’s a good thing, or maybe it points to a deeper issue inside myself. I can’t just chill and watch something on television, I have to be working through a series, or reading a book, or meditating, or drawing…I have to be completing a task or creating something new at all times.

It’s exhausting. I want to be able to put it all aside and play with dolls for an hour, then move onto Playdough.

But still I write, and it is good, because I do enjoy it. It is hard, and it takes time. But I love it, I do. And I am so close to being done with this novel, and then I can send it out places and get it published and start a new one, and let the whole thing start over again.

 

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Hobbies begun

I know, I know. Another post after months and months just to talk about how I’m posting?

Nah.

I’m gonna talk about other hobbies I’ve left to die. Like sewing, with which I mend all the pants and pockets in the world. Which is good. I’ve made a handful of dolls and one skirt, and cut out all the pieces for a dress. And haven’t touched a needle this year.

Cooking. Of course, I cook almost every day. It’s the cook book I’ve left unopened on my desktop, wherein we were meant to cook the national dish of every country we could find. That, unfortunately, has come to a halt.

I can’t even begin to list the amount of novels I’ve started to write but gave up on, three or two or half a draft in. The amount of books I’ve read a chapter of and stopped, the television series I saw a pilot or a season or even three then grew bored of.

I’m acting like this is something special, and of course it isn’t. And I’m neglecting the fact that every hobby I grew out of has given me something in return. I can sew, now, and could get back into it if I wished. I have the rudimentary beginnings of knitting, and embroidery. I could start up those novels or cookbooks or whatever.

I don’t really know what else to say, other than it makes me sad to see my bedroom as a sort of graveyard, to see these totems of lost hobbies–my pottery, my paintings, my old awards and costumes and my Wicca books and American Sign Language worksheets and yoga mat and ukulele and cello and German Rosetta Stone and stacks of paper I’ll probably never read.

And you, reader, if you have read any of my years-old posts, will remember my excitement at some of these things, and tell me that it wasn’t a waste, and these projects aren’t graves but memory figurines fit for a china cabinet. And I’ll say that’s probably a more optimistic way of looking at it, and so I will try.