Most mornings I feel absolutely discombobulated. I think this is the primary reason why I miss home--and that is, having a daily routine. Routines are safe and predictable. You know how your day is likely going to go, what possible surprises are in store for you, and most importantly what your expectations are. I like to leave unpredictability in my stories...not in my life (most days). This state of being is a little like torture. A combination between business and pleasure. Half of me between work and the other half in travel/adventure mode. It's unnerving to someone like me who works off of plans, who functions on plans and having a structured day. Why? Well, because I hate experiencing anxiety, of course. I hate it so much that I can literally turn my back on something important if the anxiety level is more than I can bare. Most times, this doesn't stop me from meeting a challenge head on, but other times...like now...all I want to do is turn my back on it and crawl under a rock for a couple of days until the feeling goes away.
Being here, I have to step back and leave too many things out in the open. (I've accepted that I just can't operate any other way, not for long periods of time.) Whether it be work, traveling plans for the weekends, or even what the hell to do with my writing. Work (my real job) is hard to define, all on it's own--requiring ample amounts of motivation and some creative swimming through murky waters that are constantly challenging me. Every evening is trying to define all the minute details of the coming weekend's travel plans. And then there's the writing. Always hovering over me like a gnawing guilt, starting out the weight of a toddler until it's the size of a full grown man riding my back, when I've ignored it for too long.
I put a lot of pressure on myself, and I know this. I'm working on it. Being type A doesn't help. Sometimes the expectations we set out for ourselves are alarming high. At first we don't see this, not until we're standing beneath it, jumping for all we're worth and then do we realize, there's no way in hell I'm going to reach it. Okay, more pessimistic than I intended. There's always a way to reach our goals--like finding a stepladder, borrow one if you have to, or grow up (all metaphorically speaking).
Writing makes me happy. When I'm not writing, I feel out of sorts--purposeless. Trapped in a semi-angry state and confused about...everything. Slightly over-dramatic, but representative of exactly how I'm feeling on days like these.
Well, I'm happy to say that I've done a full manual edit (meaning pen on paper) on the manuscript of Violet Storm. I am working on incorporating those edits to the Word document which is as fun as hearing nails on a chalkboard.
All-in-all, things for the most part are okay. I think I need to see more progress with the writing and then I'll feel better.
This Easter weekend, I'll be heading out to Ville de Lumieres, Paris.
So, au revoir pour maintenant, mon ami! ;)