Have you ever fallen off the tracks and not realized it until you looked back and saw the train wreck behind you? That's what I did a couple weeks before Christmas. Almost a year ago I gave up my office so husband's daughter could move in. She needed help, we tried, it didn't work out. In fact, it turned into a huge mess.
Just before my train tipped off the tracks I'd finished the first draft of a novel that I felt was incredibly important for me to write. I'd been working on it for a while and the goal was to give insight into living with PTSD but not in a clinical informational way. I wanted to convey how reality and fantasy mix so seamlessly for someone who has it. I wanted to create that confusion felt.
I got involved in the novel area, posted up in some threads. Did a lot of reading. Started to get involved in other peoples stories. I felt like I was reconnecting with the community. It felt good.
Things changed suddenly and I spent nine months walking around the house trying to find a place to set my coffee and computer down so I could write. I kept setting up spaces and finding they didn't work.
I feel like I've been lost for all this time wandering the desert unable to find a pencil and paper so I wrote in the sand. Every time I found a quiet moment, the words flowed but only in my head.
I'm sitting in my reclaimed space this morning, the walls a beautiful shade of tan instead of the clown shoe blue hidden beneath, and I'm wondering about those of you who can sit in any space afforded and crank out thousands of words. How do you do it? How do you curl up your legs underneath you and write with life buzzing around you?
(I guess I should have put this somewhere else instead of OP)
Just before my train tipped off the tracks I'd finished the first draft of a novel that I felt was incredibly important for me to write. I'd been working on it for a while and the goal was to give insight into living with PTSD but not in a clinical informational way. I wanted to convey how reality and fantasy mix so seamlessly for someone who has it. I wanted to create that confusion felt.
I got involved in the novel area, posted up in some threads. Did a lot of reading. Started to get involved in other peoples stories. I felt like I was reconnecting with the community. It felt good.
Things changed suddenly and I spent nine months walking around the house trying to find a place to set my coffee and computer down so I could write. I kept setting up spaces and finding they didn't work.
I feel like I've been lost for all this time wandering the desert unable to find a pencil and paper so I wrote in the sand. Every time I found a quiet moment, the words flowed but only in my head.
I'm sitting in my reclaimed space this morning, the walls a beautiful shade of tan instead of the clown shoe blue hidden beneath, and I'm wondering about those of you who can sit in any space afforded and crank out thousands of words. How do you do it? How do you curl up your legs underneath you and write with life buzzing around you?
(I guess I should have put this somewhere else instead of OP)
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