You know what my favorite hobby has been lately? Cleaning. I don’t know why, but it’s like a compulsion. I start mopping, do the dishes, scrub the shower, start the laundry, vacuum. I don’t know why. I think it’s how I assert control over my environment. After coming home from a family emergency out of state [keeping in mind I write these months in advance], I find myself at wit’s end. I have a solid queen sized bed all to myself, I don’t have to listen for someone moving around so I can be up and ready to help, there’s not mountains of dishes and laundry, and I have this weird thing called privacy! I don’t know how to act!
Just so we’re clear, I don’t resent that time. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. It was a privilege. However, if another one of you slides into my DMs with “Hi momma,” Imunna get stabby. No one calls me “mom” but my gang of street urchins. Athankyaverymuch!
You know what makes me feel like I’m flying? Writing. In my mind, I’m free, and I get the privilege of language, to share a magical land with you all. That is so special. I can send all of my emotions, screaming, into a poem. I can put my frustration in a short story and pack it off to Wattpad! Actually, I don’t have to share anything at all for it to bring me joy. I was told all my life this is how music should make me feel. Writing is much more my niche.
In all honesty, I only used one regularly scheduled, house-wide, naptime, to work on my newest YA novel The Knight Terror Rises. And I’m such a bad writer, I made memes about it on Facebook while I did it! You remember what I said about how you shouldn’t feel obligated to write during your most trying times in life? That too. So I also broke my “one sentence a day” goal.
I think, much like that little brunette girl who hid her eyes behind her bangs found shelter in reading, and this grown person just bought a book online like capitalism will save them, you should be able to hide in books. Even ones you’re making. Don’t put yourself down for that. I love to read too. I used to trade it for sleep, and I wonder if that’s how I became an insomniac. Just set the table for a lifetime of bad habits.
To me, reading feels like resting, and writing feels like flying. You should allow yourself to find your peace in both. Create, until you’re emptied out, and then you can rest again. Allow yourself to fall away into your work. Bury yourself deep, and find yourself again on the other side. Tell yourself a bed time story until you’re safe again, then go tell it to someone else.
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