I'm not knitting.

A woman sitting across from me at Starbucks is knitting a sock. When I sat down, she'd just turned the heel corner, and she just kept going. She finished the toe as I sat here staring at my laptop, waiting for the words to come. She made the pair she's wearing, too. (At least I hope she didn't spend money on them.)

That lady's going to leave here with something to show for her work. And warm feet. I came here with a heavy bag and an even heavier heart, and I'll probably leave with little more than a bad taste in my mouth from the soy in my chai.

There's this feeling. Like you're too far gone to bother trying again. Fought too bitterly, said too many things you regret, to reconcile. Gained too much weight to show your face again at the gym. Neglected to write for too long, let the keyboard collect too much dust, to pick it back up again just like that.

Defeatism is almost comforting, giving in to giving up, when everything else seems harder than you're willing to push for.

 

I'm tired. Happy, generally, but tired. Out but not down.

So much has happened since March 12 that I don't even know where to start. And because I'm me, I want to start from the beginning and go back over everything.

My nine-hour days have been more like 10 since I started with YouSwoop. The stress is near unbearable; it's hard not to feel like the success of the site is resting on my shoulders. I cancel most of my social engagements lately to go home, sit with my cat — or walk around with her scampering around and between my feets — and watch Gilmore Girls. My life as I know it will be over when I watch the last episode of the seventh season. When I can scrounge up the brainpower, I work on one of the many freelance projects I'm panicked about just keeping up with, let alone finishing to my satisfaction.

The login page for my site pops up every time I open a fresh browser window; I just shake my head and close it.

I think my biggest fear is not that I'll lose readers but that all these ideas will go to waste. My writing doesn't come to me as grand concepts; it comes as sentences or even single words that flower into something I'm proud of. Setting the intention by writing down that word rarely works out; if the feeling doesn't stay with me fully, the opportunity to get it out with any shred of authenticity goes way. That's terrifying.

I have a lot of feelings these days. So many of them are good. Despite my long days and stress levels, I'm loving life more than I have in a long time. But there are a lot of word seeds scattered here in this blissed-out, blitzed-out mind that I know won't even take. There's no energy for them. But I'm working — again, still — on cutting myself slack while I adjust to all the new, giving the words a little time to find me instead of sitting here grasping for them.

Nothing is ever too far gone. Just hit publish and start again. I'll have something to show for it at some point.