I’ve been busy. And a little bit lazy. But mostly busy. Since May, I’ve traversed numerous streets in Turkey, read a ridiculous amount of books, and prepared an outline of my thesis chapters that has been sent off to my supervisor. I’ve been thinking. I’ve been wondering. I’ve been laughing and smiling. I haven’t been writing.
And that’s OK.
Because sometimes part of writing is living. So this week, when I spend more hours wondering how to generate income next year, I’ll be living. In three weeks, when I go to Bhutan and Nepal, I’ll be living. In a few months, when I am crunching numbers and organising boxes, I’ll be living. Right now, I am living. And that means I am writing, too, when I have the chance.
And I’m OK with that.
I’ve felt guilty for not writing every day, but I’m sick of feeling guilty. Instead, I’m proud that right now I’m writing. On days I’ve been lazy and spent hours in bed with a book, I’m OK with that, because I need to read to keep my brain filled with words and ideas.
I’m trying to dwell less on my failures and more on my successes.
I don’t write every day like I used to; I write when I can.
I don’t have grand plans of writing the next bestseller; I want to write a novel (or several) of which I am proud.
I am successful. I have my mind, I have my notebooks. I am successful because I know what makes me happy. That doesn’t mean I am always walking head-up towards my own happiness – some days I need to sit down and feel miserable. I am OK with that, too. What I keep reminding myself is that I am where I wanted to be ten years ago, and that makes me pretty damn successful.