I think I might have my writing mojo back. I wrote just under 2000 words during a 4-hour stint at a cafe today 🙂 It was on the story I was writing before burn-out hit me. Is that a sign? I don’t know, but I’m happy about what I did 🙂 This story is what I consider my best story so far.
I had a thought today, what if I don’t get over my burnout completely until the one year anniversary ticks over. That’s next May! Right now I have no desire to write anything (despite writing this post) in fact, I’d rather shit in my hands and clap.
And I was starting to improve only a month or so ago too. I had slogged it out and got a novella out and did a draft of another, but maybe that was the reason. I pushed myself too much too soon.
The idea of story creation seems tedious and I’m having feelings of inadequacy. But that’s ridiculous because I’ve improved so much in recent times and I got the stories mapped out. But at the same time what if I fuck it up? What if later on, I find out that there is a better way to write it? What if I’m not the right on to tell this story? (But come on I’m the one that thought it up, I’m the only one to tell it) I’m all mixed up and nothing can really do anything about it but me.
I watched a video on minimalism and one of the questions was ‘What do you want to do with your 30’s?’ It made me think some more about where I’m headed. In 15 months I’m going to be 30 and I’ve still got my goal of self-publishing 10 books to complete. I want to achieve it, but I’m still just getting over my burnout so I don’t know if I’ll make it 😦
Also, I haven’t written anything.
Stef, you’ve been MIA with writing for a while now. That burn out hit you in mid-May with some force and it’s taken up residence. It’s now coming up to six months and you’ve achieved practically nothing. You were on such a role this time last year, you have to get back on that wheel. You can and will do better if you want to achieve your goal of 10 stories out by the age of 30. Tick Tock!
What is wrong with me!?
I’m a writer that doesn’t want to write. I cannot make the words appear on page and I cannot edit the words I already have. The stories are there, but I cannot rise to perform. For Christ’s sake, not two years ago I wrote a hundred thousand word novel in two months. And then I went on to other writing projects unfazed! I was a machine. I was churning out story after story, getting idea after idea, editing a novella in a few days and now . . . my brain doesn’t work. I’m jealous of my past self and of other writers. Like how dare you go out and produce books while I’m over here not.
The days pass by, they turn into weeks and then months and now it is the fourth month of my burnout. How much further along could I be if I wasn’t like this? I watch things, but I feel no joy from watching. I buy books that I would otherwise be interested in, but give up after a few chapters or not even begin.
My USB is full of stories. I’ve written so much and yet I take no sense of joy, pride or accomplishment away from it. Its new home is under my desk instead of permanently plugged in my laptop. I could lose it and not care.
I’m supposed to be a writer Goddamnit! Why am I not writing? Why am I so impotent? How long will I not be able to get it up for? WTF is wrong with me? I feel like crying, but I prevent myself from losing control. What am I even doing with all this free time that I now have? I spend it thinking that I’m wasting my time and talent and then get simultaneously pissed off and sad when night falls because what I have I accomplished? What am I doing with my life? What else do I have? How did I lose passion for my passion?
How do I even get over burnout? Do I just wait until my mind gets better? How long do I have to wait? I’ve had plenty of time off work in the four months since I gave up. My sleep is fine, my diet is mostly fine. I’m exercising. I have ample free time for everything in my life. But I’m moody and irritable. I don’t want to do anything else but write because it’s the only thing that I really like doing. And now it’s a thing that does not bring me joy.