On Day 1 of that weekend I was called to Sydney as Dad was very frail. Three weeks later I was there again, this time with my husband and daughters, for Dad's funeral. Less than two weeks after that, on my youngest daughter's birthday, I ordered my husband out of the house, unable to deal any longer with his alchoholism. My eldest daughter's birthday, then Christmas. In early January, David went into rehab for a month. I was there to support him. He did well - the 'star pupil'. He moved into the unit on the Mornington Peninsula - removing the opportunity for me to escape there when I needed peace and quiet to write.
The excuses have built, layer upon layer as the year progressed - a new project involving a series of events to organise, Ella (28)'s wedding, Kat (26) sorting out her life again, going back to the US for summer camp in a new, leadership role, and deciding that next year she will (finally) go to uni to get her degree, and will therefore be living with me for another 3 years or so (which I am happy to be party to, already craving company).
It is mid-June and the project is coming to an end, and I have a trip booked for September. Yes I need and deserve it, and yes it will interfere with my writing plans.
So I have twelve months of excuses for not making any real progress in my writing career.
I still like to think of myself as a writer. In a way I never stop writing - emails, reports, and I must have written a million break-up songs during January, and who knows, one day they (the songs, not the reports) might be sung by someone who sounds, looks and acts like Taylor Swift (I hope they make as much money as she does!). You'll find one at the end of this blog.
At the moment, I feel like anything but a writer. I have lost the mindset, my creativity is just about non-existent and along with that I feel l like I have lost my soul. But, as my personal trainer would say, there is only one way to get back the writing fitness I require to progress - i.e. DO IT!
I realise that, despite my procrastination I am not despairing at the very long list of writing projects that lay before me and am actually quite excited about the prospect of becoming a 'real' writer (which may be interpreted as 'I have no other income support so it better bloody work!'), but also a little bit frightened - of airing the dirty laundry; of the inevitable criticism that comes from being published; and yes, of success as well. I am sure you other writers out there will understand.
But a writer must write, and not just a blog. Write I will Luke - may the force be with me.
Anyway, I promised a break-up song, and even though I have moved past this point, I still remember the power behind the words:
You treated me like a piece of shit
When challenged, all you did was hit.
You forced me to drink your cup of lies
It was never you who apologised.
I stayed with you, dying inside
Trying to survive but victimised
Not seeing that you were already dead
The funeral march was playing inside my head.
You’re changing now and mending your ways
But it’s too little too late, we’re past the days
When I would have forgiven, would have stayed true
Our love has died, my hope has too.
My only chance is to move away
And make my way to a brand new day
Where I can reclaim who I used to be
You’re not on the chart, you’re history.
I plan to spend the rest of my life
Making up for the trouble, toil and strife
And try not to think of the time I wasted
Waiting for us to be reinstated.
©January 6, 2013
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