Time

For some reason, I have been having a hard time writing my books lately.  I finished my novella in April, and stalled.  I don't know where the words and ideas went.  I just couldn't seem to find them.

I woke up this morning ready to write again.  I spent a couple of hours working on my book.  I'm not sure how good what I wrote is, but copy to edit is better than a blank page.

The disappointing thing is that when I look at my journal entry from April 18 (the last entry I made) and try to remember what I have done with the time that has passed since then, I don't have a lot of accomplishments to point to.

I did complete a couple of crochet projects.  We went to West Virginia twice.  We walked.  And played in the pool.  I read quite a few books.

I'm wondering if sometimes I just need to not accomplish much.  If sometimes, I just need to be for a while.

My days are pretty much always full.  It is easy to keep them full.  Even if the filling of the days doesn't result in a product that can be pointed to.

There is housework, and cooking and laundry to do.  And as soon as they are done, there is more housework and cooking and laundry to do.

For most of my working life, there were deadlines and timelines and necessary tasks to be accomplished.  I still haven't figured out how comfortable I am without deadlines and timelines and necessary tasks.

I seem to have a compelling need to create deadlines and timelines and necessary tasks.  And I have an inordinate amount of guilt right now because I can point to so few accomplishments for the last few months.

I haven't neglected anything that needed to be done.  I've taken care of the business of life.  What compels me to feel guilty?

Has structure and schedule become so much a part of how I measure my value that I don't feel I have value when I am not meeting a structure and a schedule?

I was sitting by the pool yesterday, remembering the summers of my childhood.  When sitting by the pool and doing nothing was a wonderful way to spend a day.

I remember long summers with no agenda other than to play, and to read and to make happy memories.  And I never felt bad or guilty, just kind of sad when they ended and it was time to go back to school.

In the last couple of months, I pretty much played.  Other than the adulting that is necessary.  But instead of feeling good about it, I feel vaguely guilty.

I'm sure this is just another phase of adjusting to a different pace of life, a different stage of life.

Self-determination is tricky.  In some ways it is easier to have your schedule dictated than to have to decide how to create your schedule.

I'll figure it all out.  One day at a time. But today feels better because I have worked towards a goal.  I have words on paper.  My book continues to develop, and will be a book someday.