AW: Morning Blog No. 29

For the first time in years, I am concerned that I am not going to be able to do NaNoWriMo. I haven't been well. My doctor has prescribed me something to help with the anxiety that has been running rampant. I am dealing with seasonal affective disorder right now. Between the two, I find myself concerned that I just won't have the focus to do NaNoWriMo.

And then there is all of this trauma stuff that keeps coming up as I am writing. I'm afraid that I'm going to spend NaNoWriMo writing more trauma garbage. I feel terrible about writing all of this. I want to write fiction. I want to write poetry. I want to finish my epic cycle of the war between gods and among men. For the last two years, I haven't been able to work on it except in random spurts. Book seven isn't finished. Book five is on the editing block and I just stare at it wondering if it is any good or worth even publishing. My plan was to write book eight this year.

Instead, I'm sitting here asking questions about how I am going to finish a major battle scene that I haven't started writing. I am sitting here anxious that I can't write it because all I can write now is the horrors that I have lived through. I don't know. Maybe book eight will have to wait for Camp NaNoWriMo and I'll attempt to write a memoir or a fictionalized account of my history.

Gods know that I have four notebooks and countless journals full of material to draw from. If I do write this thing, I know there will be repercussions because some of the parties are still around. And they'd have few qualms about suing me for defamation of character or something similar. Never mind that what I'd be writing was the truth about what happened. Just like what I've put up in my previous morning blog posts and in my journals.

It all goes back to something I was told when I was young. That my writing was going to make the family look bad and that I was going to put the family in danger if I didn't stick to children's books and topics that were conventional (or at least what my parents thought were appropriate). I don't know what to do. It's exhausting to sit and fight with myself like this. I know that statement was designed to quash my imagination and to keep me under control.

The question is, if they throw up a huge fit and do try to some how block me in my writing work, what do I do? I'm sick of keeping secrets. I'm sick of being the one who knows where all the bodies are buried and having to keep it quiet because I shouldn't go talking about 'family business' and being an 'embarrassment to the family' with my writing 'lies'. When I don't lie. I have been gaslighted enough in my life, I can't stand the concept of lying for pretty much any reason. It strikes me as disgusting and atrocious as gaslighting.