Historically, I love Christmas. The music, the lights, the food (oh the food!), the tree, the finding of the perfect gifts, the cheesy Christmas movies, the wearing of silly hats–but lately? I’ve had more in common with Ebeneezer Scrooge than Jolly Old Saint Nick. Apart from general disgust at the gross over-commercialization of the holiday and all the pressure that everyone around me feels to overspend at the holidays (and it’s a pressure I feel too, but I’m not willing to go into debt to do it, so I employ a great deal of ingenuity and give gifts from my kitchen or craft table instead–relying on the fact that what I lack in money I make up for with creativity and thoughtfulness), there aren’t any kids in the family anymore. I still felt like a kid myself up until I was about 25. It’s a standing family amusement that I regress to about the age of 5 once December rolls around. But the last couple of years have felt more like a hassle than a holiday. My husband and I aren’t ready for kids ourselves and none of the cousins are married yet. So no kids for a while, and for this particular purpose, our fur babies don’t quite work. Beyond that there are family pressures involved that stem from certain family members showing up whom everyone doesn’t get along with…I’ll spare you the details of my husband’s family’s drama. I of the only child, very small family, persuasion don’t understand the concept of not saying “No” to people you don’t really like when you don’t want them coming. I digress. You may be wondering what the heck this has to do with writing.
This year, as I have been working on my handmade ornaments and trying to get Christmas shopping finished, and menus planned, etc., I’ve just been cranky. My semester ended, so one thing is off my over-full plate, but then I was just slammed with all the holiday stuff. And it’s all making me generally pissy, which is so unlike me for Christmas. But I’m irritated at everything that keeps me from the writing. It’s not that I’m not making my daily and weekly word goals. I am. But it just doesn’t feel like enough. This is what I want to do. Down to the marrow of my bones this is who and what I am. I am writer, hear me type. This is, certainly, impetus to finish WIPs and polish them to a gleam and submit them and hope like hell someone likes them enough to take a chance on me so that someday I can do this for my job. Or at least my second job instead of my third or fourth. I spent a long time away from this love of mine and now that I’ve found it again, I’m loathe to give it up for anything or anyone. I don’t know if I’m feeling more pressure because of the Sweat because I won’t be finished with the WIP I planned to finish by the end since I got 28k in and started over, with a nearly 7k diversion into another story before the rewrite. I don’t think that’s it. All I know is that I’m in a funk. Maybe when I get off for the holidays I will be able to catch up on some things at home–getting the house thoroughly cleaned up and organized, putting up the last of the holiday decorations (which feel more like a chore this year than a joy, mores the pity), finishing the gifts in a jar I’m giving this year, getting things wrapped, and just generally catching up. I have this constant sense of something hanging over my head. Oh, and my mother’s birthday is tomorrow, which I almost forgot (thank you dear hubby for reminding me–that makes up for you being with me for 9 years and still not remembering what I like on my pizza), and I have no idea what to get her.
There’s not a lot of point to this post, I suppose, other than a general gripe session. So just throwing it out there into the void as a cathartic move. And for those of you who may feel the same way, at least you won’t feel alone.