Epistolary #1: Fighting Dust Bunnies and Trying not to Hate Everything I Write

Y’know I recently realized that the main reason why I keep neglecting this blog of mine is because… I’ve lost the spirit of what it means to blog. No joke, I really think that, along the way of trying to improve my content, I may have forgotten what got me into blogging in the first place. Way, way back (as far back as my Livejournal days), I used to be able to write without a care. Sure, I may have overshared a little bit and, yeah, my writing was garbage (more so than now, I mean), but blogging was actually fun back in the day. It was enjoyable and cathartic. Nobody read what I wrote – thank god! – but I loved opening an empty text box and just going all out.

Now on my quest to be a better writer, I may have put too much unnecessary pressure on myself and, as a result, spoiled what was once a very enjoyable hobby. Crap.

So! To reignite the spark I once had with blogging, I’ve decided to start this, uh, let’s call it a series of sorts. The “Epistolary” series is going to be just me writing as casually as I can, trying to go back my LJ roots where I wrote personal anecdotes or whatever came to mind without caring if my post would be interesting or worthwhile to anybody but myself. Not like I have actual readers now but for this series I’m not even going to pretend that someone might give a damn about my blog.

On Dust Bunnies

Yesterday I watched a video by the human equivalent of a ray of sunshine, Garrett Watts, where he finally started organizing his chaotic tiny house. It reminded me of my tiny room and how I literally feel like the walls were closing in because everything was just so messy (by my standards at least). I figured that if Garret, the adorable but still the personification of an Actual Mess™, was getting his life together, I may as well try and do the same.

And I did.

What I didn’t expect was. All. That. Dust. Everywhere. Every nook, every cranny… places where I didn’t think dust could get into. I do a vague sweep of my little room every few days or so to get a handle on the dust and whatnot but, damn, I have not been in any way thorough enough. The dust bunnies… they were everywhere! Plotting to usurp and assassinate me in my sleep, no doubt.

think I got the worst of the bunnies last night but I’m 100% sure they’ll be back with a vengeance soon enough. In the meantime, I’m somewhat enjoying my reorganized room. I moved my bed and my desks and my bookshelves so the whole place looks different and a little more spacious.

I have yet to tackle the Herculean task of organizing my books though. Honestly? At this point, I don’t think it’s humanly possible for me or for anyone to get my shelves in order. I just have too many books, not enough shelves, and zero idea where to put anything.

To quote literally every procrastinator on the planet: I’ll do it later.

On Not Losing Hope for my Novel

As I’ve said before, I’m currently writing a novel. I started last year for my first serious attempt at NaNoWriMo but failed rather miserably. Anyway, I’ve long passed the 50k mark but I’m still far from over. I highly doubt that I’m going to be able to finish the first draft by November like I sort of planned but whatever.

Anyway, it’s been a little bit of a challenge getting any work done on my novel. Not because I’m stuck on a plot point or, heaven forbid, I’ve lost interest in the story… it’s just been a little bit difficult to convince myself that my writing isn’t total shit and that my story isn’t a complete waste of time.

All writers are insecure about their work and their skills, I know, but it’s a hard to start a new chapter or a new scene when you know that you don’t like the way the previous chapter/scene went and can see glaring faults in your writing but you can’t or don’t want to rewrite it because then you’d spend the entire week editing and not actually writing. Fortunately, I’ve only fallen into that editing trap once some months back but it’s been a hard battle keeping the story going.

I’ve been writing for more than a decade now and I know that I can write somewhat decently given enough time and effort. But writing a novel is just… it’s something else. And since I’m such a nitpicky, pedantic fool, I’m constantly picking up on the weak links of my story but I! can’t! FIX THEM! It’s infuriating and more than just a little bit disheartening. Sometimes I just want to punch the wall in frustration because I can’t get a scene to go the way I plan. I can see it in my head just fine so why it’s so difficult to articulate makes me so flippin mad.

Currently, I’m still a little bit confident that I’ll get this novel of mine done… at some point. I do love the story and the world I’ve built and I want to know what happens to my main characters it’s just… writing is painful. Every time. Seriously, it’s like I’m bleeding into the page and rubbing rock salt to my wounds. For what? Nothing! Or so my brain tries to tell me.

I need to do a better job at convincing myself that all this isn’t for nothing and is, in fact, for something. Maybe not a big something but… something.

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