Sometimes having a degree in Psychology is … cool. It encourages me to view life through a different lens. I seek to better understand myself, others, experiences, everything.
Psychological upset is the primary inspiration for the fiction I write. I love (in a demented-author kind of way) putting my protagonists through difficult situations and seeing them come out the other side (hopefully wiser and happier but definitely stronger). I also do it because I am forever an optimist. I believe in the power of the human spirit. The ability to push through the darkest of times and overcome personal hardships deserves to be celebrated and shared.
I believe in second chances. Do overs.
But sometimes, having a degree in Psychology is … not so cool. It leads me to become overly introspective. I begin to question myself, others, experiences, everything.
I am a solver. I look for whatever might be broken and try to fix it. I want to right every wrong – in my little world and elsewhere. If not kept in check, I attempt to solve problems that aren’t even problems at all. As someone who seeks answers to infinite questions, things can become very messy very fast, and it is easy to feel worried, overwhelmed, and unfocused. In these moments, I have learned to be patient. I wait. And when I wait, something wonderful happens.
Life resets itself. I begin again.
Lately, writing has fallen down on my list of personal priorities. And as I searched for a way to push it back to the top, I considered the obvious reasons: family responsibilities, frequent travel, social requirements, home workloads, overscheduled calendars, personal care, the list goes on. To put it bluntly, my process was not working and was in desperate need of repair. So I paused. Went silent.
And in the silence, there often comes clarity.
After some deep reflection, I realized the problem wasn’t everything else. It wasn’t due to a lack of balance, a need for simplicity and organization, more discipline or more time. The reason everything felt off with my writing was well … because of my writing.
I thought it was simple burnout from publishing a book a year or stress from trying to create full-time or frustration from the neverending need to market or being overwhelmed by the demands of the industry or fatigue from doing it all on my own. The truth is, it was. It was all those things.
But it was also something more.
For the past ten years, I have neglected parts of my life in an effort to create quality content and keep up the countless tasks that come with being an indie writer. When I write, I write not only for myself but for others. To show we are more alike than different. That what troubles you troubles me. That we can get through dark moments and difficulty and come out better on the other side.
There is no doubt that writing occupies a big space in my heart. It is not only WHAT I do, but WHO I am. I love it.
But sometimes, love makes us do difficult things.
Love for my family is making me move toward them. Love for myself is making me the highest priority. And love for writing is making me take a break from it.
WHAT DOES THIS MEAN? It means I will work – but less. I will write – but not with the intention of finishing or publishing a new book. I will blog – but even less than I do now. I will post to social media – but only when I feel like it. I will market – whenever. Nothing will be scheduled, planned, or expected. There will not be any goals or deadlines.
And the beauty of it is … I haven’t a clue how things will go.
I refuse to give up – but I am unafraid to give in. To the instinct, the known, the feeling that I do have to change things up and let go a little so I can hold onto what matters.
WILL I RETURN FULL-TIME? Maybe. I will take the coming months off and reflect on what has been. And when the new year comes, I hope to have a better plan for what might be.
I am not done. I am just getting started. And I can’t wait to come back and share it all with you.
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