You're invited to my pity party. (Bring your own whine.)

This post is all about the whining. My apologies.

I had the most frustrating day. My husband is out of town for work, so the kids and I have been together all day and all night--no break. I just put them to bed, and I'm sitting here with a glass of wine and a headache and a bad attitude. I had so many plans for today, so many things I needed to get done, and every one of those plans fell through. What frustrates me the most is that I wasn't able to work on my new story, which always seems to get put at the bottom of the pile behind laundry and taking out the trash and changing sheets and cooking meals and pretty much everything else that needs to be done in this world. (So it seems.) I get so angry when things don't go the way I plan. I guess I'm being selfish and childish, but just for once, I'd like to put some of my things first. What happened to the things that are important to me? They've been crushed; everything else always comes first.

Again, I'm sorry about this rant/whine/oh-woe-is-me post. I used to be the person who got things done, and now I don't. I just can't get used to that.

The pressure to create

I've been thinking today about the pressure I'm putting on myself as I try to write my new novel. I don't like to say I have writer's block; I'm not sure I even believe in that term. I write every day, fiction and nonfiction, and for the most part the words come easily. But every time I start to think about my current WIP, something in me freezes, and I can't let myself go--my words and thoughts are tangled, and nothing I write seems, well, right. I don't feel the freedom that writing usually gives me; I don't feel like I can let my words just dance across the page. Instead, writing each sentence--each word--is agonizingly difficult. The pressure is on--and I'm the one causing it.

I wrote today, as I always write, but I wrote nothing on my novel, and each time I started to think about it, I would shove the thoughts away. I don't know why I'm doing this, why writing is suddenly tortuous rather than freeing. Maybe I'm just putting too much pressure on myself. Maybe it's not time for this WIP yet. Maybe I need to set it aside for a month or for six months. Maybe I need to allow some time to pass so that I can gain perspective on just what it is I'm trying to accomplish with this mother's story.

I'm frustrated. I have so much to say, but I can't find the words.