The uneasy art of taking oneself seriously

It is hard to take oneself seriously. It feels pretentious to do so. I’m getting a bit better at it though because I am starting to accept that it takes a lot of time to improve and if I don’t make spending time on writing a priority then none of my projects will ever get anywhere near where I want them to be.

So I have to establish clear boundaries on my time and sometimes bow out of things because I need to write. And be comfortable saying that. Which is really awkward¬†because I feel like the worst kind of imposter acting like my time is so super special and I am some sort of grand artiste that needs time for their work. And yet, I do need time to do my work. And while it may not be work that is important, you know, for the world and I’m not going to be getting a Nobel Prize soon ever, it is still important for me.

Writing Notes: Editing, page by page. I feel like my vocabulary ends up being so small when I write that sometimes that it is a little horrible to read through my work. I read other people’s stuff and it feels so much richer, so much more fleshed out. But I’m chugging away, and have gone through about half of my manuscript. Which is progress.

Reading notes. Still on The Two Deaths of Daniel Mayes. Getting close to the end. Fun read. I’m forcing my mom to read Broken Harbor so that I have someone to talk to about it since my husband has refused (aka he has been doing tons of reading for school and hasn’t had time but po-tay-to, po-tat-to).

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