I am really struggling with writing at the moment. I don’t find myself very inspired and I don’t particularly want to edit my existing play either – I’m a bundle of joy, I know. I want to write. I want to just get on with it. But I’ve buried myself under pressure and what comes out are not diamonds but just rather a lot of dust. Tired dust at that.
This was how I felt at the end of the year. I decided to take January off. Not off-off because I still need to make money (which I am forever thankful I can do online – I tutor – and I have been able to do so throughout the pandemic) but rather turn off the pressure hose that I seem to constantly point at myself. It was hard work, ironically. That little voice in my brain telling me I am not being productive and so I am a waste of space is a loud one. But turn it off I tried. What came out of the month of January was rather unexpected.
Don’t worry, I am not about to tell you that I stopped pressuring myself and as a result I wrote 5000 words a day and I am now a published playwright.
I re-decorated my room. I – like many of you – have been staying with my parents. They bought this house in 2014 and at that point in time I decided to paint it green and purple. Don’t judge. It looked okay – I quite liked it. However, having stayed here on and off over the last 12 months, it became somewhat oppressive. Go 2014 year old me for trying to decorate but I now disagree with her tastes. So, I decided to repaint my room. I know this might not be the big epiphany you were looking for, but it felt so good. I loved it. It’s taken ages (I am not done yet) but it’s been so fun and so creative and so fulfilling. Also this was a task I never would’ve given myself time for because I was supposed to be working and writing and attending workshops and doing 5000 other things to advance my career. Instead, I repainted my room. I love sitting in this room now. And I can look at something tangible that I did.
I think I’ve found the joy in other creative endeavours. A simple conclusion you might think but one that I hadn’t allowed myself to reach before. The arts, being creative, that’s what I wanted my *job* to be. And in 2020 I slowly sucked all the joy out of it. Of course, I am hoping by some miracle that I will sit down and write another play since I am now so creatively relaxed (*eye roll eye roll*) but I am also a realist. That probably won’t happen just yet. I did sit down the other day and write a short story though. So there’s that.