Over a year has passed since I lost my husband of 25 years. It feels like it has been forever and only yesterday. This is what eternity feels like. Let me tell you, it sucks. I would give a lot to be by my beloved’s side, him here or me there. Not an option to take, of course. Too many people who would be annoyed with me, and that would be including him. An eternity of vexed beloved is not something I want to deal with.
I had finally even managed to write a complete, albeit short, story. It needs editing. There are some holes that need filling. It needs a title. But I had managed it. I hoped that it would be the end of my dry spell. Writing is breathing for me, and not being able to put words to paper, or some electronic version thereof, was eating me alive.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
The new story needs editing, but I can’t figure out how to begin. There are two stories that follow it that need writing. Can’t figure where to start there, either. And then there are the two series that need their next installments written but…well. You can figure it out, I’m sure.
I kept trying to figure out why I’m back at the “ideas be rattling in there. You want to write them? Eff you” mental state. I feel guilty for not being able to overcome this. He would want me to write, after all. He was the one who believed in me and encouraged me to share my writing with the world. He was the one who believed I was good enough before I could even hesitate to agree with him. I imagine he’s rather vexed with me on that side (and probably feeling guilty for being on that side and disrupting things as his death had done) because I’m not writing.
All over the place, I see these little snippets of wisdom and inspiration that boil down to “Take time for yourself. Do things for yourself. Take care of yourself.” While he inspired me, my writing was for me. But I figured out finally why it isn’t enough.
My Charlie isn’t here for me to see and hear his reactions to my writing. While I love all those who read my stuff, a few who actually love my stuff, they aren’t him. They aren’t the man who knew how I thought as much as I knew how he thought. There was something special in sharing my writing with him before I shared it with others. Writing, as well as many other things, just seems pointless to do without him.
I am a lazy beast if I can’t latch a reason to doing something that takes effort. Like, I know walking is good for my health. But I can’t motivate myself to step out. Not for my health. Not to do X miles in Y amount of time. But I will get out there to hatch a stupid egg in Pokemon Go. (By the way. Five 10k eggs have yielded 5 Eevees. If the phone weren’t so expensive to replace, I’d have thrown it.)
You can find a how-to solution for nearly everything on the internet. Except for that.