Writing is my job. In my beefy little 2022 planner, four books lurk. I’m deciding, amongst the dozens of other plates I’m juggling, how 2022 will look.
Where are the months when my hair is on fire? Which ones have a getaway tucked into their folds?
If confessing, I’m not the poster child for self care. Running at top speed while looking for my eyeglasses that are on my face is a little closer, but what I truly excel at is over-piling. My yes reflex is strong.
Of course I can do that, no problem.
That sounds amazing, count me in!
Easy peasy, let me push a few things around.
Then life, that cheeky bastard, throws a wrench and “I’m sidelined with a blow knee and it’s raining plates.” – (To Walk in the World ©2021)
And that habit of the blind rush is a hard one to break. Busy keeps you from dealing with change, it’s a subterfuge you sell yourself. If you’re busy, it’s a permission to not feel, to not grow, to not challenge. It took me along time to understand that busy is a farce.
So after nine (going on ten) books written by a pantser by the seat of her calendar’s pants, I’m embracing change, a shift to structure. Oh, not of the writing. I know that has to unfold in my goofball brain the way it always has in order to be authentic. But I’m trading in the busy panic, the anxiety of deadlines in the ether.
In a way, I’m choosing to mature as a writer and publisher. Sales are up 67% this quarter. Thanks to readers discovering my little corner carnival and all the wacky wonderment within, the wheels on this bus are picking up speed. And fast.
So I’m relearning my business, bringing a sense of order to the mechanical side, and that starts by visualizing my year, the writing, the book releases, conferences, and me time. I’m traveling, soaking up new spaces and refueling the writing. The sense of peace that came with taking time to ponder what reorganizing might actually look like was an invigorating exercise.
They are fueling my rise and writing is my job. It’s the least I can do.