Last night, for the first time in a very long time (six months? A year?) I actually made time to write again. I decided at 10pm that I would spend an hour writing. I haven’t been doing things to fill my bucket lately (baby, business, etc), and especially 2022 was so stressful, so my goal for October is to try to do more things that fulfill me in other ways.
Boy, was it intimidating sitting down at the keyboard again. I could feel my panic rising as I tried to figure out what to write, could feel that wall rise up that always comes up when my writing gets hard.
I tried to work a little on my Wren book, but after a few minutes of scrolling through my outline and my work-in-progress I was floundering. It had been so long since I had touched it, I didn’t even know where to start. Do I jump in with just a random scene and go? Do I go to the beginning and read it again to reminder myself? Those are both good strategies I think, but it just seemed like a lot.
So a stopped, and thought about it. Part of getting back into writing is also getting back into the practice of writing. I told myself that I didn’t have to tackle one of my works in progress. Just writing anything to get my brain back into the routine and the rhythm of the practice would be a big step.
So I found myself some writing prompts, picked one that tickled my brain and went for it.
It was a slog. My anxiety kept wanting me to bail. I fidgeted a lot, and pondered a lot. And made myself stay in my chair until 11 at least trying. One more word, one more sentence at a time.
Forty five minutes later I’d written just over a page. Was it perfect? No. But I felt so good having persevered through it. I showed myself that I can still do it. I just need to make time and go and push through the anxiety.
I’m proud of myself for trying. I’m hoping to set aside a “creative” time for myself. After the baby’s bedtime routine but before my own, reserve that little space of time for filling my creative bucket.