I think I have figured out the things I need to do daily to take care of myself, in particular two forms of exercise. I must physically exercise (usually, jogging) and I must write. I’m a writer at my day job, and I have no problem blogging nearly daily as you can see. That’s not what I need, though. I need to write fiction. The stories just have to get out.
I have always considered myself a writer foremost, to the point where when I’m doing anything else creatively I feel like I’m procrastinating from my true calling, which is writing fiction. It’s certainly true that when I’m tinkering with different sorts of projects I’m not making the time to write fiction, there are only so many hours in the day and I only have so much creative energy.
A few months ago I convinced myself that I needed to start viewing writing as more of a hobby, and less of a calling, and that would take some pressure off and I’d be happier. Well, what happened was I stopped writing entirely and started dumping all that nervous energy into random projects, and my existential angst and anxiety have gotten worse. There’s nothing wrong with having a lot of projects, but all that nervous energy, it means something. I think my brain is hunting desperately for fulfillment and meaning.
I think I need to start making some serious declarative statements. Like: I have stories I need to tell. I want to finish those stories, and I want to try to get them published. Really try. And my inability to do this, the constant rewriting and abandoning of good stories–so good they continue to haunt my brain long after I’ve put them aside–is a byproduct of fear.
This is something I need to do for myself.