I’m supposed to be taking time off my foot. It’s been a relief not to have to shop and cook, I’ll admit. And I’ve gotten more writing done because of it. I’ve been hand writing from the couch. I don’t have the funds to buy a laptop, and even though people say ‘just put it on a credit card,’ I’m barely making my minimums presently and don’t want them to grow.
I’ve started to take days off blogging and devote to the book exclusively. I will scroll through email but only look at critical ones. Social Media can distract me to the point where I get nothing done.
Also, I realized I needed to start the first novel in the trilogy at the point when I enter the radio business and what got me there. A lot of it was dumb luck. But maybe my subconscious led me to the river.
Why is it so important to write a book? Because my life has been such a fuss and such a combination of efforts on behalf of so many people that it bears witness. Some sort of GPS or road map or survival journal should be there for the perusal of those who come after me.
Also, to inspire, because I’ve overcome so many negative predictions on the subject of: getting my SAG card, getting commercials on my own merit, making the volleyball team, getting published by NAMI and IBPF, Get into a good college, or live a happy life.
A lot of my problems stem from being raised by a borderline, bipolar, alcoholic, compulsive gambler of a parent. Though I know he loves me, nothing was ever good enough for him to even listen to without telling me what was wrong with it, or me.
So two weeks ago when he offered to help me self publish my first book, like a dumb tilapia, I took the bait, only to be told how stupid a woman I am, how he never offered to help me self publish, that the whole mission is a waste of time, ad infinitum. It made me realize that however well meaning his offer was, a lot of what I write about is going to reflect on him and let’s just say I allowed him to help me and the first book didn’t take off or make any money (most don’t). He would start berating me to stop writing. So I can’t let him get near my writing. He would try to kill it because that’s just who he is. He won’t admit it, but he wants to be the star of every show.
The outcome of him withdrawing his support brought on a depression so deep I wasn’t sure that I was going to make it through. That’s scary. That’s why I post that I’m not scared of sharks and car crashes and cancer, I’m afraid of depression.
Since the time of my diagnosis, I’ve been shunned. Why? There is a narcissist, a few drinkers, gamblers, and one sociopath in their number. I don’t want to get burned. I have been dis-invited to two weddings of sisters, and left out of every family event. I’ve been told that I embarrass the family. Money is not a problem, but closeness is.
I’m actually proud of myself. I’m trying to do something I’ve never done before. I think that breaking it into bite sized pieces is actually going to help me with this earlier material I’ve taken on. I just am scared. Sometimes I want to just quit. I’ve done so much work already. I’m going to go back on the couch, or is it coach? hahaha