When I'm in the writing flow, I can easily pop out between 4000-6000 words a day. It feels seamless. The words are coming to me effortlessly, and I am in authorly ecstasy. But when my world is not going well, everything is affected. Simba's passing was a heart punch I'm still dealing with daily. My body is flaring like it thinks it's the best thing to do. And my brain? That heifer feels like she's split into a million little pieces right now.
Focus? Biggest joke ever.
Usually, at this point, I would start the self-defeating talk. Asking myself why in the holy hell I can't just pick myself up by my boot straps and carry the fuck on. This is the talk I would always give myself when everything would be too much. And I'd pick myself up, weary as fuck-all, and continue.
I mean, really? What the hell was wrong with me, anyway?
ADHD.
Not an excuse. But a verified, late in life. diagnosis. Why can't I pay attention? Why am I bored easily? Why am I easily distracted? Why do I zone out when I should be doing something?
I'm NOT a weak-ass bitch. 😤 (Thank you, trauma, you fucker.)
My brain was made this way, and I'm just now taking meds that can help alter these patterns. Is it still frustrating?
BEYOND
so so beyond...
But I'm working on being a bit nicer and more understanding to myself and not such a force of unforgiving nature.
I once had a boss tell me that if I expected everyone to work to my standard, I'd never be able to work with anyone. How right she was.
I have two conferences in August, and I need to finished Canary: Out of the Shadows. I'm watching my oldest granddaughter Monday-Friday, and life is still popping. Will I make it? Jury is out. But the bottom line?
I need to calm down.
Crystal*
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