There is no one on this planet who should probably quit more than me. I have ME/CFS and I can't think too hard or too long or I sleep for days. I am suffering from shingles under my right eye right now and my sight may become damaged from it. I broke my left wrist in May and I'm still regrowing the cartilage. I still have the carpal tunnel in my right. I've been abused and my still beating heart was thrown onto the ground by my abuser and crushed under his hee.
I can't even give my books away. No one wants them. I'm fighting a battle no one wants to be fought. Not even me, sometimes!
Except that I love what I do. I love to spin stories and rhyme, I love to play with an idea until I can see its shape in my mind and then write it down and see how the shape changes and becomes something beautiful. I love the way my craft has grown after I was so sick last winter that I almost died. I love the progress I can see in my journey from abuse victim, into abuse survivor, and turning ever slowly into... just free. Just me.
I should stop, probably. But I'm not going to. I'm going to write, going to publish, even if it's 200 words a week, until I die. I don't know how to stop, and of all the lessons life has tried to teach me?
I have no desire to learn this one. If I can't write with my hands, I have my feet. If I can't write if my feet, I have my nose. If I can't write with my nose, I will speak my stories. I will die before I quit
There is no one on this planet who should probably quit more than me. I have ME/CFS and I can't think too hard or too long or I sleep for days. I am suffering from shingles under my right eye right now and my sight may become damaged from it. I broke my left wrist in May and I'm still regrowing the cartilage. I still have the carpal tunnel in my right. I've been abused and my still beating heart was thrown onto the ground by my abuser and crushed under his hee.
I can't even give my books away. No one wants them. I'm fighting a battle no one wants to be fought. Not even me, sometimes!
Except that I love what I do. I love to spin stories and rhyme, I love to play with an idea until I can see its shape in my mind and then write it down and see how the shape changes and becomes something beautiful. I love the way my craft has grown after I was so sick last winter that I almost died. I love the progress I can see in my journey from abuse victim, into abuse survivor, and turning ever slowly into... just free. Just me.
I should stop, probably. But I'm not going to. I'm going to write, going to publish, even if it's 200 words a week, until I die. I don't know how to stop, and of all the lessons life has tried to teach me?
I have no desire to learn this one. If I can't write with my hands, I have my feet. If I can't write if my feet, I have my nose. If I can't write with my nose, I will speak my stories. I will die before I quit