Lately I have been in a weird place, and I don’t just mean Colorado. I am moved into my house – check! I have a job I enjoy – check! My daughter and her dog are with me – check! I’ve found a yoga studio I love, even lost a few pounds recently. Life is on track.
Or is it?
I’m realizing that even when things look great on the outside, that doesn’t mean they feel right on the inside. There’s still something missing.
I think of last year – where was I around this time? Pamplona? Madrid? And planning a journey through South America. I have it all down: about 125,000 words. Waiting for me to come in and clean it up, get it in shape to send out.
And I just can’t.
I read it, I play around with a sentence or two. But to do a full-on revision, readying this memoir for the eyes of readers? Somehow I just can’t do it yet. And I don’t know why.
My little office is all set up – a room dedicated for only this. I don’t have tons of time, but that didn’t stop me from writing before. In the echo of my warm empty house this morning, I find myself wishing my Facebook page was more exciting. I wonder if I should vacuum again? I hold my breath, count my heartbeats.
My inclination at times like this is to start something new. But I know that is a distraction and nothing more. When that “something new” became a bumpy but complete first draft, I might abandon that too.
Why don’t I truly believe I have something to say?