I'm Okay, Really I Am...

So it occurred to me that my last blog post may've come off a little...out there. Spacey. Might leave folks wondering if I'm in the middle of an existential crisis. Anyway, I just wanted to add a  little note that, not to worry, I'm fine.

It's just that...the last three years haven't always been so fun. I imagine many folks who chase an artistic dream - like I have been - are eventually forced to come to grips with how they've been chasing their dream, and if it's been healthy or not.

And, I've just recently come to the conclusion that my dogged pursuit of writing the past ten years eventually turned toxic, and decidedly unhealthy. Along those lines, I realized a startling truth this morning: I didn't have to write to be happy, today. In fact, I didn't feel like writing, and my day would actually be better at work (teaching) if I chose NOT to write this morning.

I didn't need to write this morning to feel happy.

Granted, I'm well aware that tomorrow will likely be at least a two-hour delay because of the weather, affording me time to write. I'm also well aware that we have a four day weekend ahead, which will also provide a lot of time to write. Even so...

I didn't need to write this morning to feel happy.

A writing career is no longer essential for me to feel "happy" or "fulfilled."

Maybe this smacks of common sense for lots of people. I mean, let's be honest - writing (any art, really) is an unpredictable pursuit. Even those who have full-time careers probably take care to center themselves on something less mercurial. Case in point: the novel I've been working on for five years, which I thought I'd made a breakthrough on, has once again hit the skids. It's done, I finished it. It's just...not good. Not right now.

So I'm shelving The Mighty Dead, for now. If I was centering all my happiness on writing, this would really throw me into a tailspin. I'm not exactly thrilled about it...but it isn't the end of the world, either.

I'm fine.

Weirdly enough, this novel I spent all summer finishing, and all Fall editing, has just sputtered out...and I'm fine.

This doesn't mean I'm done writing. I've finally started that big coming of age novel, and that makes me happy. I just saw the illustrations and cover for my second Cemetery Dance novella, The Night Road, and I'm thrilled at Ben Baldwin's as-usual stellar work. I think I'll eventually tinker on the Billy the Kid novel again.

It just means I don't need writing like I once did. Of course, this begs the question: what's going to take the place of writing as what "makes me happy" and what "fulfills" me?

I don't really know.

And that's kind of scary.