So far, September has been a spectacularly awful month. I say that, but the only bad thing that’s happened has been our Princess passing away. Of course, I say “only”, but what I mean by that is: utterly devastating.
I did start a new story, that I haven’t touched since she passed. I talk, repeatedly, about people who can write as a form of therapy and coping when life falls apart — I’m thinking specifically of Catherynne M. Valente and, new to my awareness, Wendy C. Allen (who, in fairness, may not keep writing when life falls apart, but considering the amount that she’s written, I can only guess that she does), not because I think they’re the only ones who manage to, just because at, not even four AM after a few hours of tornado-brain-induced insomnia, they’re the two on the top of my head. I envy that ability. I used to have that ability. And I guess, if I wanted to, I could push myself to keep writing anyway.
Except I’m not the least bit interested in having my writing become associated with anything negative. I don’t know when it moved from being a coping skill method to not, and I don’t know that I like that, but I do know that when I’m feeling this pulled apart (which I do right now. It’s not just Princess’s having died; it’s my grandfather having died a few scant months ago, and the fifth anniversary of Angel having died, and coming upon the anniversary of my uncle having died, and the depression, which is usually low-grade and constant and dependable in a yawning pit of exhaustion.) the idea of writing makes me want to weep, to curl up around myself, and keep all the vulnerable bits contained.
So, not judging, and letting it be whatever it is. And reading. And knitting. And baking.
I am, despite that, excited for the new collection projected. One story in, three waiting to be told, and more shaping up. Maybe once I start just letting myself write without trying to fit into any one category, it’ll become a positive coping method again?