The Writing Week (Vol. 5) part 209 - Distracted

Personal life can at times get in the way of one's writing life. Granted, it might make sense to presume that the two are too dramatically interwoven to be considered separate. After all, don't many writers write semi-veiled or completely obviously autobiographical pieces? Isn't the commonly held belief that whether we write kitchen-sink dramas or end of the world pictures, we're still writing what (and who) we know?


Quite probably. However, the operative word in both of those assumptions is "write." Without actually putting words down, no level of autobiographical material can considered to have been written. (Sure, one can plan and develop, but I'm talking more literally than now.) This past week has been an example of one of those distracted periods in my attempts at productivity, in which a troika of personal factors have drawn my concentration far, far away from my writing.


Not to get into it too much, but 2012 has already proven itself full of both ups and downs. I'm heading out on yet another trip next week, so part of my mental capacity has been taken up with the planning. It should be fun, and though I travel relatively frequently, I'm still typically filled with nerves and pauses in the weeks leading up to the departure. Focusing on anything (even trip planning) can be difficult. not an excuse, I know, but still... Panama - here I come!


I've also been applying for new jobs, and have a possibly promising lead on one, with an interview later this week. Remember how I was talking about trying to shake things up a bit as a means to spark creativity? Well, this new career path opportunity is one such example of how I'm hoping to do that. Coupled with meeting some new people recently, the professional and social changes have had a deleterious effect on the writing.


Primarily, now, though, I've been consumed with some rather devastating family news. Loss is something one can never fully brace for, even when given time, and it seems as though many of my thoughts this year will be toward steeling myself against an inevitability I dread facing. Ideally, this means I will be able to spend countless hours with my ill loved one, but the immediate result has been an impressive lack of attention (on pretty much everything) and no desire at all to write. 


Life is unpredictable and can come at us quite quickly when least expected. Mine seems busier now than usual (in many instances, in a good way). Though I'm not producing pages now, hopefully I can store these experiences and emotions in my artistic bank and draw on them later, when the mood strikes.