Small Update.

Husband and I are moving in a couple of days.

I won’t be posting entries, reading entries, or responding to anything for a little while…hopefully everything will be a bit settled by the end of the week and I will be able to catch up on the numerous open tabs for things that I need to read.  I’d intended on getting that done yesterday, but my sleep schedule got all KINDS of messed up and life has a little too much madness to suit me at the moment.  (A little note: Any new followers/likes that I have, I WILL remember to check out your blogs the minute I am able to do so.  Also, thanks for being interested :). )  Soon after that, I will be able to do a little more work on my book, so that will be another gap in time, depending on how much needs doing and whatnot.  Then another break from that.  Then…………done, and working out the details of the means in getting my baby out into the world.  Wow.  Crazy stuff, that.

Good news is…….I will have my shed again!

Hello wonderful, creative freedom.

I was so missing that in life.

I hope that everyone out there is having a wonderful extended weekend, is experiencing wonderful things, and has a wonderful, wonderful week.

– C

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Making Time for Security Blankets

I began typing up a new entry earlier today (it will technically be yesterday by the time this is posted), and was interrupted and asked to come downstairs at precisely the same moment that I realized…I shouldn’t have been writing it with intent to share in the first place.

Blogging is difficult for me.  When I do it, I can feel the little tug from the past saying, “Hey, You…You used to enjoy me.  Remember?  You used to tell me everything.  What happened to You?”

I’m a different person now; that’s not a bad thing.  I enjoy taking my personal steps back from my writing.  I enjoy my life being mine.  I enjoy my stories being their own.  My life and my writing coexisting so closely?  Well…it’s just not as appealing to me as it once was.  Sure, I put little bits and pieces of myself into everything that I write.  It’s completely different.  If you write books about characters that have their own lives and experiences – where those lives and experiences do not coincide with your own – you will understand what I mean when I say that it’s different.  I prefer it that way.  I enjoy my privacy – or having as much privacy as I want to allow myself. 

The point of this being that it’s so funny how things seem to happen at precisely the right time.

Is that our own mind adapting to circumstances and situations, growing from them and MAKING any time the right time?  Or is it something simpler, yet indescribably more difficult to explain?  Do we make the right time, or is the right time made for us?  Hmm…It’s definitely something to ponder over.

That question is more relevant to my life at the moment than I can fully explain.

I’ve spoken of headspaces before, but I will say that during the past week or more, I’ve been stuck inside of a worse one than any I’ve been stuck inside of for a very long time.  I’d forgotten what it was like.  It was something I never thought I’d forget; I believe that alone speaks wonders towards the natural progression of life.

Headspace.  Right.

Finally though, after everything had seemed so dark…a little light of hope appeared.  It sounds lame, I know, but it’s true.  It was unexpected, but what was more unexpected was the massive amount of clarity gained from that tiny light’s illumination.  I’d been so focused on the negatives that I didn’t realize all of the other things connecting themselves inside of my head – working themselves out naturally.

I’d already worked out my plan for my books, but I hadn’t worked out my plan for my life.  The realization that it had worked itself out somewhere in the back of my head – without my knowledge or permission, mind you – hit me slowly.  I don’t really feel comfortable with anything unless I have a plan for it.  Yes, I’m aware that you can plan and prepare for as long as you like and, more often than not, it won’t work out the way you thought or intended.  That’s not why I do it.  I do it for the structure and the security.  In fact, you really could compare the feeling of it to a security blanket for my head.  It makes me feel better.  Safer.

Right now?  I feel better.

I’ve been sitting here staring down at the keyboard for several minutes with a little grin on my face.

I have always, always been a mess.  Until I started writing books, I had absolutely no feeling of purpose in life – no direction or motivation; I was just going through the motions, enjoying what I could and getting through the things that I couldn’t.  I was 22 years old when I discovered what I wanted to do with the rest of my life – the thing that I couldn’t live without.  Earlier than some, later than others.  Enough time to get me the experience at life that would make me good enough at writing about it.  I’ve made enough mistakes to learn from them, and I’m at the appropriate distance from those things that I’m capable of looking at them objectively and turning them into positives.  But even after discovering that – my love in life – everything else was an endless question mark.  Wants and don’t-wants traded spots on their respective lists periodically, depending on the circumstances and the time.

Now, at 25…in this moment?  I think I’ve got it.

Happy late birthday to me.

It was worth the lateness.

Suddenly, being closer to 30 than 20…Well…It doesn’t sound so bad anymore.

Failing Words and Suds

I didn’t sleep well yesterday.

At this point, I’m not sure if I should blame it on the windows letting too much light in, the fact that I should’ve known better than trying to fall asleep after the sun came up (without the windows covered), or all of the thoughts and ideas swirling around like little smoke clouds inside of my head.

I’m going to do this tomorrow.  That’s something to do.  There’s a new bit of something to add to the game plan.

I’m sure it was a combination of all those things.  So forgive me (in advance); I’m far too tired to have the sense of what I do and don’t want to say.

While walking upstairs from my last cigarette break, I was thinking about bubbles.  Not the pretty sort with the little rainbows on them, floating around easily before they burst apart in a spray of tiny suds.  I’m talking about the kind of bubbles that we find ourselves trapped inside of periodically throughout life – or that we step into willingly.

My life is a life of bubbles, I realize.  It sounds ridiculous; I’m coherent enough to know as much.  I’m trying to find the words to explain it correctly and I’m failing.  I hate feeling like I’m failing words.  I can’t express how much I hate it.

I lived in whatever bubbles suited me best at whatever time when I was growing up.  Varying colors, varying opacity, varying space.

I’m not sure that I really knew what that meant until now, thinking about the way they’ve changed for me…or the way that I’ve changed for them.  I’m not sure.

When I was writing my books, I was stuck inside of these impermeable bubbles.  I couldn’t see out of them.  I don’t think that anyone could see inside of them.  Maybe they could a little and I was too busy admiring the beauty of it alone from the inside.  They were so beautiful.

I’m inside of a new one now – one that I can see out of clearly.  I can see all the beauty outside while it passes by me.  Life.  Life is beautiful, no matter how much bad we experience throughout the course of each of our own.

Right now?  I feel like I’m stuck here, waiting for that damn bubble to pop.

I think we’ve all had our moments where we felt like life – in all its intricacies, and roads, and deceptions, and potholes – was passing us by.  I think we’ve all felt stuck before.

My problem right now is I can’t explain the difference in that feeling and what I’m actually feeling at this moment.  They are two COMPLETELY different things.  And I’m failing words again.

I’m so sorry that I can’t do you better justice.

Taking a step back.

Those moments of feeling stuck while you were watching life…I know that every time I’ve experienced it, I always felt that some force was holding me back from what I wanted to do – whether it was myself, situations, or another person.  THAT is how this moment is different.  There’s nothing at all holding me back, but there I am, still trapped and watching.

It’s new.  Almost equally unpleasant.  Possibly more so because I can’t really understand it.  Possibly more so because I’ve allowed myself to be open to the endless possibilities.  Possibly more so because I finally have a dream.

It will happen.  I know that it will.  I don’t care if it’s my own determination, some talent that I can’t actually see, or just the natural way that bubbles disintegrate and disappear when exposed to the air.  It will happen.

I need to work on my patience.  With myself.

I know this was way deeper/emotional/ridiculous than my usual entries.  Sorry.

I just figured I’d try that thing where getting stuff out makes you feel better.

Nah.

I’d rather write a book.

I don’t fail words so easily when I’m doing that.