It’s funny, those things you know, and the things you should know, and how you can end up learning the same thing over and over and over again.
I love to write. I know this.
I love to write fiction. I love to tell stories.
And still, I get tangled up, caught up, distracted by the hustle and bustle and worry about money and jobs and whatever other things fill my head.
Not that money and jobs and all aren’t important. I’m pretty darn convinced of the importance of paying the mortgage on time, and making sure that I’ve always got enough laundry done to be presentable.
But stories fill my soul.
If I forget that, if I don’t make the time, clear out whatever commitments and obligations that spring up like a thicket around a magical castle, I’m lost.
Something will happen where I have to learn all over again. Where I don’t have a choice. When I finally take time to rebalance, to get my feet under me, and to spend some time trying to understand why I feel so miserable, so stressed.
Then it hits me again.
This time it hit hard. I’ve been particularly stressed, wound into a project that is important, really it is. But finally I’ve remembered.
I write stories.
Because I write stories, I know about people.
I solve puzzles and have insight into people’s minds because I am a writer and a teller and reader of stories.
Solving puzzles. Looking at things in new ways. Finding the least likely path. These are all skills from writing and reading and telling stories.
But I am never as happy as when I am writing.
Nothing makes me happier than world building and plotting.
I need to remember that above all else, underneath all else, I am a story teller. A maker of worlds with words.
My basic, underlying need is to write.
Stories make my blood and my bones and the air in my lungs.
So, what now?
I’ve started writing again. Building new worlds, dreaming a past and a future. And I couldn’t be happier.