I really hate admitting that I have limits.
It’s true though–I cannot actually do everything. Writing and promoting and working full time and taking a class and taking care of the house and taking care of the cats–I’m overwhelmed.
I have a self-imposed deadline on Cannibal Hearts, there is a local science fiction convention in October and I want to have a bookseller’s table with hard copies of both books, so I need to keep moving ahead.
The thing is, I have never been good at setting reasonable limits for myself. The fact of the matter is that I am very fortunate in how I’m put together–I am smarter and stronger and quicker and healthier than most people. I don’t take credit for it, I didn’t ask for it, didn’t work for it, it’s just how I’m made.
However, I’m not indestructible, and I’m tired right now. Bone tired. Dog tired.
I don’t like to admit it, but I need to rest. I’m burning myself out. I need to get past all the old trash in my head that says rest equals weakness and weakness equals worthless. I need to give myself permission to be human.
I’m not going to give up. Giving up is what is going to happen after I’m dead, and only then if they screw the lid on my coffin down really tight. But I am going to loosen my choke chain a little bit. From now on anything counts towards my daily writing goal. As long as I open the document and take a look at the last sentence I’ve written, I’m good.
If I add a word, a punctuation mark, heck, if I hit the flippin’ spacebar, it counts.
The important thing is that I don’t quit. If I don’t have the energy to go forward, so be it. I need my day job to put food on the table, that has to be my first priority. But I can’t let myself forget that I am also a writer, and I will rest up, and when I have the energy to move ahead, at least I won’t have lost any ground.