Book Writing and Blogging

I’m pretty sure this post is going to be about the book I’m writing and the blogging I do in my other life. I think. I do know I need to write more about writing, but I’m not sure that’s what all will be here. Believe me, if you’re looking for pretty during this post, it won’t be here. I’m letting out the ugly — a necessary evil.

My muse has had it’s ass kicked lately. Mainly due to my six funerals in eight weeks — the final one for a while (I hope!) is this week. I’ve sat and stared at blank documents and screens way off often. My creativity has been a bust.

Yep. I’ve totally sucked. And I’m very thankful for that opportunity.

I’d love to say few writers go through periods of self-doubt, hidden muses, and general life suckage causing their veritable well to dry up, so to speak. But there are things this spell has taught me, no matter how much I didn’t care for the lessons being taught along the way.

1. I’m a writer.

2. My creativity isn’t dead, it’s on vacation. I’m pretty sure it’s in Fiji where tan cabana boys are rubbing it with exotic oils and plying it with cocktails which have a multitude of colorful umbrellas.

3. I’ve spent a lot of time off social media. This is a win, trust me. Well, except Pinterest. Some of us must pin beautiful boys to their board.

4. There’s been a lot of reading done around these parts.

5. ┬áSleep. I’m all caught up — but my body denies it.

I’m pretty sure there’s also been some sabotage in there as well. Wait, there’s been a lot. Hello, my name is Lisa and I’m a self-sabotager because I don’t do what I should do out of fear, but I’m trying to suck it up and kick myself in the rear every single day to do more.

Hey, I’ve written more than a check to the grocery store tonight. I’m pretty proud of myself. Maybe my muse doesn’t hate me as much as I thought she did. Thanks for being there, vast pipes of the interwebs were my words in black and white go to die. Other people may not be listening, but it’s still nice to have a spot for you.


I only have me to blame.

Writing can be a soul sucking job. I’ve had people tell me “why don’t you quit” and the thing is, you don’t just stop writing. If you don’t write, you shrivel up and pretty much fall apart. It’s what drives us, what challenges us, what gives our lives more purpose. The simple of act of using our fingers, or a pen, and putting words on paper, is one of the greatest things a writer can do.

Yet, there are times we shrivel up and don’t write. We don’t share. We are… frozen. I was working on another piece at my full-time site, A Daily Pinch, and considering my life and the anxiety I have. Yes, I get terribly anxious over the act of writing, as I often at times feel as if I have duct tape on my mouth. As I was thinking this and DM’ing with two fellow writers, I’ll call them Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum (they’ll appreciate the reference), one commented, before the other had a chance, they chimed in to let me know I didn’t have duct tape on my fingers.

It’s so profound. Yet so… disheartening. I don’t have anything to blame. Not my social anxiety. Not my introvertedness. Not my fear of failure. PMS isn’t allowed, nor is a desperate need for Fro-Yo, RIGHT NOW.

There are times I wish I still smoked. Or drank. (I have one bourbon, once a month. That does not a drinker make.) At least I’d have something to do while pondering everything. Don’t tell me to increase my coffee, because if were to increase consumption I’ll levitate — and unless I can fly whilst levitating, I’m not going to be a happy gal.

I only have me to blame. Me. Me. Me.

No one has put braces on my brain. No one has taped my hands. No one is stopping me.

Except me.