AW: Morning Pages Post No. 92

 I'm beginning to feel like the freewriting exercise that is the Morning Pages is an exercise in futility. I tend to complain and write about trauma instead of writing about anything relating to this blog or anything more interesting. I recognize that I have a boatload of trauma that I'm working through but I feel like it's just word vomit of the most unpleasant nature when I get these posts done. It's frustrating because I want to be writing about other things.

I am still stuck on book seven. I haven't touched it in months. It is a combination of depression and frustration that's been keeping that one in a holding pattern. I'm depressed because I am struggling to make sales with these books. And I'm frustrated because the final scene for the book refuses to gel no matter what I do. I'm half tempted to just delete the whole damn document and start over again. That, however, will get me nowhere and leave me feeling even worse.

I keep trying to write poetry. It's not working out well. I am reminded that I am terrible at acronymic poetry. I don't even know why I started with that form but the stuff I'm producing is really bad. So, I put aside the poetry notebook and don't look at it until it's late in the month and I start swearing and remember my little goal of writing one poem a day. I used to be prolific in my poetry writing. Now, it barely happens. Beloved says it's because of my depression. I don't know if it's that or if I just kinda got frustrated that I couldn't do anything with it and sort of gave up.

I want to write an epic poem on par with Beowulf. I know, that's a huge target and it takes a lot of effort, but watching a friend of mine translate The Hobbit into Old English, I feel like I should be doing something equally challenging. Beloved argues that I am currently doing that by juggling a number of blogs, trying to run two businesses (my writing and my tarot reading stuff), and actively running my household (which means keeping tabs on a preteen and a teenager).

I miss the days where poems came to me easily. Now, it's like pulling hen's teeth and that makes me sad. I feel like I've lost something. I miss painting and drawing sketches of things like birds. I used to be more artistic and engaged but over the last several years, I just kinda gave things up. My plan for 2022 is to try to pick up those threads and get back into it. I think it'll help with my depression and mental illnesses if I was doing those things again. Art therapy is a thing, after all. Right now, I just am tired and frustrated. I'm not sleeping well and my anxiety is high because it is the holiday season. It sucks.