Monday, January 12, 2015

Echo test: Echo.. echo.. echo...

It's been a rough week on the writing front. I have gotten a lot of work in on my newest project. I'm working on a companion book to Rose Petals. It will be a day book of sorts that takes one through the Filianic calendar year. I have my outline written up to the latter portion of Winter. I am torn between being pleased with how much I have gotten done over the last week on this and a powerful sense of concern.

One may ask, why am I concerned? I have been keeping a blog on religious stuff for about three years, with the focus on how I practice the blended path of Filianism/witchcraft/heathenry. I don't post as much as I would like to but I'm working on improving that. At the same time, I am struggling with the sense that I am writing for an empty room. It is really disheartening to work so hard on a post and have it met with resounding silence.

Honestly, even if I was encountering criticism, I think I'd be pleased because I had discovered someone who were inspired to respond to me in some fashion. In my reading about how blogs make money, it seems that I have hit a fairly common point. Where other bloggers have given up, I intend to keep going. It is my hope that my blog builds readership but at the moment I have a hard time believing it will.

I suppose it doesn't help matters much that I am feeling a bit worn out and depressed. My ribs have been bothering me terribly for the last few weeks. I think that my bout of mild bronchitis bruised my ribs. I've been taking Aleve and resting. This, however, has me struggling with the feeling that I am a useless lump. (I don't know about anyone else, but when I get sick or am otherwise unwell, I feel like I need to do ALL THE THINGS and do them RIGHT NOW! And the fact that I can't rankles me powerfully.)

A part of me gets angry and bitter with the fact that I am engaged in work that I have been taught is better suited as a hobby rather then a vocation. I find myself repeating to myself all of the hurtful things that I had spat at me when I was younger ranging from the idea that I am wasting resources with my writing (cue pangs of guilt for every scrap of paper I throw away) to the thought that what I write is too 'out there' for it to be marketable. I am working with my therapist to get out of that mental trap, but damn is it hard.

Some of that anger is directed at myself for two reasons. One is the idea that I am some how doing something morally wrong by pursuing my dreams of being a professional author. The other is the towering anger that I feel at the former concept. My therapist says that I am making progress in the fact that I get angry over the first concept. I'm honestly sick and tired of feeling like what I am doing is wrong somehow, that I am being selfish to chase this dream, and that my work is wasted effort. I try not to think about it but at the end of the day, it is the specter standing at the foot of my bed.

It is hard for me to post this. A part of me says I should delete this entry and consign this to the rubbish heap of failed effort. I am actively working to resist the urgings of that part of me because that is the same place that the directive to surrender my dreams comes from. It is the same place where the urge to just give up on life comes from and where all of my negative thinking finds safe harbor. Some day, I may stumble and give up that hope which pushes me forward. Some day, I may lie down and let life pass me by. Today, however, will not be that day.

Thus it stands that I feel that I am screaming into an empty room. If I only am answered by my echo, so be it. I will simply scream louder for the sake of catharsis and making that echo turn into a roar rather then a whisper.

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