I’m frustrated over my lack of progress. In life, my writing, my moving-out process, and everything. I’ve tried decreasing my impossibly high standards for myself. Maybe that goal is exacerbated by my one goal: writing. I balance that singular goal out with procrastinative activities when I’m not feeling well. It helps. Still, I’m frustrated that I’m not further along, which is weird. I was just told, to paraphrase, that I have an incredible work ethic.
Today, a big article of mine published.
It’s one I’ve been off-and-on working on for the past month or so. I’ve had one editor buddy of mine review it, others provide feedback, and it made the rounds on plenty of social media platforms. I’m not really exhausted from seeing my name everywhere. I’m already onto the next pieces I’m working on. I have plans for what I’ll publish with them next week, and we have some new things coming down the pike. It’s plenty of work away from Better Zombie that I’m writing this at nearly midnight.
I’ve honestly been a little burned out by publishing here.
That burn out is because the time investment versus reward aspect of writing some of these articles isn’t quite there. I’ve been finding more of an audience abroad from here. This has always been one step up from a personal diary of sorts, but between that writing that’s been making the publication rounds and my stupid music reviews that I publish, which hasn’t really gotten me anywhere either, but fulfills the writing practice I need so much.
So I wonder what it is?
I’m probably oversaturated with moving out. I have a routine of packing certain boxes that are completely taped up into one area, but even that means now I’m getting to the stuff that’s hardest to pack. The sentimental items that I see daily yet can’t quite overcome dealing with the notion that I might not see for a few months or even a year. This move has already been hard enough. I’ve sacrificed many of my previous projects that, like my procrastinative efforts, have been things that I kinda wanted to do just as a light experiment.
Things are more serious now.
I haven’t worked in four months. Many places like seeing at least four paychecks. I have enough money in the bank, that was for any maintenance fees, that can afford a place for a while, but it’s rough. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I’m going there fast. I have a room full of stuff to pack. At least it’s the final room. I’m just tired of all this. I want to go back to writing fiction. I imagine new scenes from “The Story” daily. I don’t want to be dealing with whether I want to keep this or that. That’s probably why it’s been difficult. When life is hard, writing isn’t easy. I should be moved out by this article’s publication.
Still a month of articles about this to write, though.
|Sources: My personal experiences.|
|Inspirations: I have a queue of upcoming things to write on certain days. I’ve been feeling shitty this afternoon and evening, so I write about sobriety stuff in these sorts of moods.|
|Related: Other Moving Zeal and Sober Living essays.|
|Picture: Abstract drawing vaguely representing progress and its many layers and challenges.|
|Written On: February 14th [30 minutes]|
|Last Edited: First draft; final draft|