I recently joined a very small writers’ group on Facebook – we’re meant to post our personal writing goals for a set period of time and then update everyone on how it’s going.
I think I’ve written two half-assed blog posts since.
January is kicking my butt this year. We’ve had three snow days, a bout of sickness, a week of springlike warmth bookended by freezing cold temperatures… my dad-who-raised-me lost his mother after a prolonged battle with stomach cancer… Pixie’s parents are living apart (maybe temporarily, maybe not, who knows?) so she’s been crying since last week…
In other words, hey! Winter sucks just like it does every year and who wants to write about it or then read it?
NO ONE, THAT’S WHO.
I have nebulous plans to write down everything I can remember from my childhood; I want to try NaNoWriMo this year, and I’m just not confident writing fiction anymore. I haven’t done any since high school and I’m willing to bet my style and technical ability is permanently mired in the Slough of Despond (with apologies to John Bunyan).
Sadly I just cannot make myself care about writing right now. By the time the last shot is fired and I’m sitting down after Harry is finally in bed, I just do not want to do one more thing that taxes me mentally. I usually end up watching competitive cooking shows and eating olives, or futzing around on Twitter pretending that it is the same as real human interaction outside the house.
This sad little post? Has taken me hours. I started it this morning. I’m grinding it out the way people grind out exercise they don’t want to do. Mournful.
I just drifted away again and got distracted by a tweet about Furbies turning evil as children are playing with them. Like, apparently the stupid things have multiple personalities and they will turn on a dime, and one of them is a deep-voiced, scary, mean Furby with flames for eyes that yells, burps, and eats excessively all while yelling gibberish.
So, it’s like me during Shark Week, then? Is that what you’re saying? A toy designer somewhere followed me around and put my hormonal self in toy form, and sold it to parents for $74.97 at Wal-Mart?
(Confession: A sick, sad part of me wants a Furby now so I can see just how fast I can make it turn evil. You’ve got to have goals, man.)
I get that this is just January biting me in the ass again. I always get like this, this time of year – slow, stupid, overly-emotional about some things and completely unable to give even a single fuck about other things.
Or, to put it another way, this:
The days are getting a tiny bit longer, and after all, January is nearly over. I’ll survive, as I do every winter. Spring will come and suddenly I will love life again.
But oh, it’s hard in the meantime.