There’s something weird in the air. It’s Christmas, it’s stress, it’s everything. Lately I’ve been feeling everything too deeply, too hard and in a way that I’m unfamiliar with.
I wondered what was different, what was wrong.
Guess what it was.
I stopped writing last month (oh god it’s only been a month??)
How weird. Lately a LOT of people have been commenting that I’ve written ~too many books, I’ve written so many things, and why don’t I stop for a little bit? Well, I haven’t done it in a month and I FEEL BAD. And not bad in a way that I can push aside. Bad in a way that my feelings get all jumbled up in the worst way. Bad in a way that I read into every little thing, because there’s no way for me to process my feelings.
I came to the realization some time ago that writing these fluffy bits of lovely nonsense are my way of making sense of the world around me, putting my feelings down on paper and trying to understand why I feel them, how I would work myself out of them. In this last month, I’ve cried way too many times than I care to mention, I cling more to little events with friends (reinforcing the idea that #romanceclass saves lives, saves my sanity, so thank you for needing me a little bit) and I want so much to be needed that I do things that may come off as ~too helpful.
Case in point, a secret thing I did that I told very few people, because at its core it was totally embarrassing.
See? I sound so brave, and confident, when really, I was having a REALLY BAD DAY, and that made me think to do a thing that maybe I shouldn’t have done, but I did it anyway, and yeah I felt really good after, but it didn’t make the bad thing go away completely!
Because the next day, I was still feeling pretty useless and yup-I-can-just-disappear-and-all-will-be-the-same. It’s terrifying to feel that way, because I know that I can talk my way out of that, like really easily. But I feel it, still.
It’s really hard to be thankful for things that happen outside the book thing (I’m getting internationally published in the most unexpected way, I love doing my little lettering projects that people seem to like too) when not doing the book thing is dragging me down.
So what’s the conclusion, here, doc?
Conclusion being that a writing hiatus is probably not for me. I told myself I could stick this out until the end of the year—but clearly, I can’t.
If it isn’t obvious, I am spiralling a little. I recognize the signs by the number of my online purchases and the weird bravado I have by doing things I never usually do, because I am not usually this confident or cool.
So long story short, I’ll be writing again. Either I’m going to work on a fun Europe adventure between my favorite Capras sister and a tour guide OR a ‘new series’ with a craft coffee shop engaged in a food war with her baker boy neighbor. It’s not going to be sad, and if you’ve read my books, you’ll know it’s going to be pretty damn sexy. And I do love sexy.
End of blog post.