Three weeks into February and I'm in need of a deep breath. I've been working hard on my story and surfaced from my imaginary world long enough to realize that my house in a wreck. Between my time-intensive job and multiple projects, I realized that I have not been giving enough attention to my family needs. Every writer addresses this conflict (as probably does every living human being), but as 'Mom' my mind feels especially weighted. My mother was a stay at home mom, my husband's mom the same. My son does not hold any special expectations of a perfect life. It's my own expectations that are the worse.
I am into the last three scenes of my short story '.MEM'. Angela is preparing to view a collection of documents that will expose the motives behind Raquel Garcia's attack. Is there a twist? Hell, yeah. That's the way my mind works. That's the way the world has worked on my. They tell you to write what you know and so I'm going at it.
The third week in February and the impatience that tells me that I should have accomplished more is raging. Deep inside I know that big projects are accomplished on small step at a time. There are thousands of books that confirm this theory, a thousands examples, and while the theory of entropy says that we can't maintain all things at all times (etc. my house, my job, and my art), we can break old habits by practicing new ones. My writing and my dancing have always gone head to head because I experience severe guilt when artistic entropy draws me more one way than the other. Last semester it was my dancing, this semester it is my writing. I have not yet learned that there really is no balance and that I can only address things as they come. This week I will get my house a little more in shape and address my writing and dancing in smaller doses. Next week I will watch entropy slowly eat away the stability of my house, but I will probably finish '.MEM' and learn how to make a cleaner shuffle step. The little accomplishments are slowly eroding the guilt. The hour and a half spent ironing, the hour writing, the half hour reading, the two hours with my son, and the late night conversations with my husband. I once wondered if I could accept death and dying more if I was guaranteed that these memories could come with me and I would have to say 'yes.'
I know that there is never perfection. I will always probably be a little neurotic; a little A.D.D.; a little rough around the edges; a little insecure. It doesn't mean I can't try to work on refining myself. This year its discipline, integrity, confidence, my turnout. Next year it will be something else. I look at myself as a writer and I see potential material that I think about completing so that I can submit, but I know that from my perspective the step is too large. For me I will feel accomplished if I learn how to finish what I start and given the number of started projects, finishing a few will take a lot off my mind.
Well, I'm going to go. There are projects at my day job that needs finished. Take a small step today. I don't care if it is learning how to make coffee. It took my 32 years before I got the courage to do so. Now I enjoy the rewards everyday.