Yesterday Tesfa spilled milk on the notebook I’ve been writing in for the past few weeks. Not just the notebook, but the whole table to be accurate, and she missed my iPad so there’s that (although perhaps having an iPad with horrendous cracks all across the screen having milk spilt upon it wouldn’t be horrible).
Yes I know that Hemingway’s wife left his stories at a train station. There is no need to tell me this is a step on my way to becoming Hemingway.
The notebook is rinsed off and sitting under a rock in the sun in my yard. Nothing in the book was meaningful. Nothing in it was even complete. Anyone want to read a variety of scenes about people doing nothing, because, if so, do I have a milk-stained notebook ready for you?
The main conclusion: I don’t know whether to keep writing as a main career, put it as secondary to find another career, or some other option that has yet to occur to me. My writing has spiraled into repeating nothingness. There are no math jobs for at least a year. Geoff says to see a career counselor, but I don’t know if I want a new job as much as I want to be excited about writing again, like I was ten years ago.
I could play video games forever. And really, would anyone other than me really notice?
Comments
That sounds like a really hard spot to be in, Meghan. And I’m sure having everybody home all the time doesn’t help with finding space/time/excitement to write either. I would be sad not to have more of your excellent stories out there in the world, but at the end of the day, I just want you to find something that helps you feel fulfilled and purposeful and happy.
Author
Thanks for your words Lydia.