It’s Sunday evening, that traditional time for feeling depressed about the impending Monday morning. When such feelings roll around (and they’re sadly not confined to Sunday evenings...), I wish all the more I could make my living from writing.
It’s hard pursuing such a career in my spare time because I want some ‘down’ time too. I want to socialise, I want to watch movies, play music, have fun, but, if I do, certain feelings nag away at me: my writing isn’t getting done; I’m not even half way through my novel; I haven’t submitted anything anywhere in a long while. Not to mention the ‘feeling tired’ after a day’s paid-work
So I end up feeling guilty and miserable about the lack of progress.
Then there’s the knowledge I’ll never meet anyone – be they friends or otherwise – if I don’t get out and do something, but socialising on a Friday night leaves me yet more tired, inducing yet more guilt – not only did I lose Friday as writing-time, I lost Saturday too.
It all leaves me feeling very frustrated that I can’t get up tomorrow, do a good 7-8 hours writing work, and then have time to meet people/play my guitar/crash in front of a DVD/whatever.
The privileged few who are paid fiction writers are my chief source of envy at the moment. And knowing that they’re a ‘privileged few’ doesn’t exactly help either: even if I sacrifice my social life etc for a year to complete my novel, the chances are it still won’t get me what I want.
I guess all there is to do is keep plugging away, keep tapping away at this keyboard as best I can, whenever I can. Like a marathon runner: focus too much on the twenty-odd miles left, and you’ll not have the strength for the next yard. The only way to finish is one step – one word, one sentence – at a time.
So here I go...plodding on.