So sometime last month (I think), in a fit of enthusiasm, I signed up for Camp NaNoWriMo. It’s essentially the same as the November event, but with more flexibility regarding word counts. And cabins (hi, bunkies!). And it’s a lot of fun.

But it’s seven days into the camping season and, so far, I haven’t written a word. (I have gone actual camping, but that’s another story for another time.) As a matter of fact, I switched projects. After realizing that I wasn’t sure exactly what I was trying to do with the novel I’ve spent years tinkering with, I shifted gears and moved onto something else.

I made a decent start on a new/old story and got a little feedback that had me second-guessing pretty much every aspect of my writing life. I got similar feedback on something else, which led to third-guessing my ability to write professionally, period. Then I tried to eat my weight in chips, fiesta ranch dip, and parade candy.

Suffice it to say, it’s been a rough week. Month. Whatever.

And it seems it’s not just me having a rough time of it lately. Between Brexit and the upcoming election here in the States, it seems a little like the world is trying to tear itself apart. Yesterday I read three different posts about people being tired. And not the usual, “Oh, I had a late night,” kind of tired, either. I’m talking the kind of existential exhaustion you feel in the marrow of your bones, the kind that makes you wonder why you even bother to get out of bed in the morning, let alone face the world. The kind of weariness that tells you that dreaming is hard, and it’s just not worth the effort, and the odds of success are astronomical, so why even try?

I’ve avoided the news for months now because paying attention to it depresses me. I joke about living under a rock, but the truth is that it’s quite nice here. Then I log into Facebook, and see things about how politics are destroying friendships, and my heart hurts. I was actually nauseated a week or so ago after reading that someone I consider a good friend had been deeply hurt by someone she considered a close friend, but whose politics differed greatly from hers. I was left reeling, and it wasn’t even my friendship that had been broken.

Why can’t we all just get along? I wondered.

This post is the first thing I’ve written in some time. You see, I’ve become paralyzed by fear. And I hate it. I’ve been inspired to write before now, but the Doubt Monster always crept in, whispering fearsome things and stilling my pen, relaxing my fingers. Doubt is a slimy, scaly beast, and I’m tired of tangling with him. Fear is his even uglier bosom buddy, and I’ve had it with him, too.

So this is me, trying to rid myself of the Ugly Twins, trying to break free of the paralysis. The silence round these parts will likely continue for a while, but I hope it won’t be quite as quiet as it has been lately. If I’m still, I can almost feel the fire stirring inside me again, the fire to write, to live, to be instead of to do. My embers are slowly warming, and one day soon, a crackling blaze will light my blog again.

In the meantime, though, the coals are perfect for s’mores…

How is summer treating you?

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