It's been a long time since I've written. Like, a long fucking time. And like, fucking anything outside of work. The last thing I handed in, I handed in to Bitch Magazine, on time and needing few edits. It was a total high, the email I got from the editor, saying how pleased she was with it. That on the tail of my story in Best Bondage Erotica should have left me feeling really good about what I'd been doing and where I was going. The high subsided, and quickly; I felt flat instead.
That probably bears closer scrutiny, but more obviously, my life was in complete turmoil. It's been quite a year and some.
Since this time last year, I got laid off, got another job, worked both jobs, welcomed This Charming Man into my house, and then we pretty promptly moved into bigger digs. I was freaked out, frankly, by just about all of it.
What I knew already, but learned well again, is that I do not function at a creative peak when the rest of my life is in upheaval. When I am worried about whether I will be able to afford my roof, I do not feel like writing sexy stories, or amusing blog posts, or interesting anything. My output becomes very quickly limited to list upon list - generally lost and re-written with a different pen, or in pencil or in the draft folder of another email account, or lodged and lost on the cloud - of how to cope with what I am trying to cope with.
And fair enough, eh? A person only has so much electricity to push through their circuits.
The problem, of course, is that when the anxiety circuits stopped needing so much energy, I discovered that my creative circuits had pretty much rusted out.
It's been stressing me out, but I don't really know what to do about it. So I figured this old blog, that once had me writing with frequency and pleasure, might be a good place to start.