So this funny thing happens when I don’t have time, or capacity, or allotted butt-in-chair time to write: I want to write.
It happened a lot in university. When I was forcing myself to sit down to study for exams, I wanted to write. But I couldn’t.
Once I gave myself permission to not write–a totally free pass on NaNoWriMo–I got the itch to write. My ideas settled in my mind, clearer than before.
I waded into a collaborative short story with Jessica Corra. I shared a base idea for a submission, but I lacked the time to write it. We seem to be letting the character pull us forward, see where they want to go.
I look at my novels (the many novels I have shelved and waiting on skill to execute), and I feel I can do them. I feel I can deliver the stories that do justice to the feelings each story stirs within me.
This entire year I have dedicated to paring down obligations in my life and focusing on the path I want to explore. And the more I pare down, the more I realize I want that time for words. But I am still drowning and fighting. This November will be one of the busiest of my life–this entire year has. I have done so much more than I thought I was capable of doing, even while paring down on commitments and organizations.
I want to write. And I will. But this time of intentional rest is necessary for me, my family, my health, and my stories.