So I just realized today that at some point I need to transition my career. I need to actually take the plunge and focus on writing in the very near future.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. Today I was suspended for two days from work (I understand why, just as they understand that my mistake was due to a misunderstanding. It bites, but I’m still in solid standing at work), and my near-panic and raging self-blame in response made me realize that I probably eventually need to be accountable only to myself, as I can at least know for absolutely certain what I expect myself to do. Also, my body won’t hold up forever...the service industry is hard on the human skeleton, and I have a terrible feeling that my immune system is going even more haywire anyway. This fall, my husband will be starting a film studies course, so I’ll actually (THANK GODS) have time alone. I’ll still devote energy and love to work, but I need to figure out how to get a new computer and write. And write. And write more.
Additionally, being in therapy for my CPTSD has made me realize that part of my difficulty in actually pulling the trigger on longform writing is the absolute terror of seeing bits of myself scattered across the page, in a format that will require me to see them more than a few times. With poetry I can just vomit out the whole thing in a shockingly short period of time, revise or refine it once or twice, then never look at it again, relying utterly on the reactions of others. Now that I’m confronting my own horrors, I think...I can handle seeing longer stories now. None of them are autobiographical, but they all certainly contain flecks of my blood, so to speak. Almost everyone who has read much of my work is aghast that I’m not yet pursuing it as a profession, but they also had no idea what demons I hold at bay by running on autopilot nearly all the time.
This autumn should be interesting.