I was hoping to post something different today. Something that would speak of great progress and positive feelings. But I made a promise to myself that I would always be honest in my writing to the best of my abilities. So honesty it is.

No matter how hard i tried, i couldn’t focus

Today was a crazy and stressful day that was completely out of my control to change or improve it.

I sat down to write 6 times, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t focus or even think straight enough to get anything written.

Unfortunately I am not one that handles this kind of stress well. I crumble under the pressure.

And though writing has often been a place of comfort for me, my self-imposed deadlines are beginning to wear on me.

“I’ll get ahead of the deadline, and then I can rest”

I heard that deadlines were great for productivity. That the pressure of a promise to finish something is what creatives need to turn their coal into diamonds.

But I don’t think that’s the effect they have on me. Sure, the deadline makes me think of doing the thing, but it’s gotten to the point I cannot enjoy myself after the work for the day is done.

“Just 30 more minutes of writing, I need to make more progress” (it’s already been 3 hours)

“If I write just one extra chapter in this sitting, I’ll get ahead of the deadline, and then I can rest” (the chapters are 2500 words each)

And then, when I get hit with what may or may not be burnout, I feel even worse because I’m falling even further behind and I don’t know how or when I will catch up again.

When did writing become such a double-edged sword?

I have made some writing progress this week

I have made some writing progress this week at least.

I’m up to 3 clean chapters/7,500 words of the first draft of my novel.

Well, sort of. See, I wrote about 17k words of this book a few years ago, and only recently picked it back up. The plot points are changing in the process and I never did have a completed work, so I’m calling this my first draft.

But it never feels like enough

But it never feels like enough.

I finished reading Little Women today, and that book made me feel existential about my own life.

I really do want to see my writing through, and I want to make a name for myself as a writer. But my fears concerning publishing aren’t helping.

If the pressure of a self-imposed deadline causes me such grief, do I really have what it takes to self-publish?

And if I publish traditionally, will anyone care enough about what I’ve created to give me the time of day?

I’m not giving up on my writing by any means

My family tells me often that I focus too much of the future, and should just do the thing until it becomes relevant. But I don’t think its in my nature to do so, try as I might.

A clear vision for the future drives me on. I like writing on its own, but without a goal I begin to lose my sense of purpose.

I’m not giving up on my writing by any means. These concerns plague me often. I decided to share them here, so that one day when I have gotten somewhere in my writing, I can point people here to say “See, it wasn’t perfect or easy, but I kept on anyway.”

Maybe it’s a bit ambitious to hope that I can one day be an inspiration to others, but right now it helps me to keep on going.

And by now I’ve climbed too high not to reach for the summit.

Better luck next time (for us all),

A. G. Swift