hibernating instead of striving

when saying no invites rest + rambling

In the last week I’ve canceled plans for hosting a Christmas party for our nature group, seen a homeschool book club fall through, and a church dinner moved elsewhere when septic issues erupted at our house.

Each time a plan has changed, it’s brought relief. Not only relief, but a new layer or realization of just how much pressure I put on myself to get things done and execute them well. With the belief that the expectations of others are riding on whether or not I deliver.

Recently, I was catching up with a friend and we were sharing a common struggle when I said, “Is this just another layer of the onion of proving my self-worth that I already thought I’d dealt with?” Yep.

What does any of this have to do with the writing life and living between worlds?

It is a strange world we live in where what you create means you must also market yourself. As writer part of ourself is what we sell. Our worth, or the worth of our work, is laid out in analytics and query rejections, book sales and reviews, little hearts and acceptance letters.

We are never simply ourselves as creators anymore. We are our own brand or platform, a pen name, a representation of hopes and dreams, the proving of someone wrong, seeking to please the algorithm or the publishing gods in hopes that our efforts are not in vain and we can connect with our ideal readers and find that elusive group of people whose idiosyncrasies synchronize with ours.

The stories we write are an integral part of who we are, not just the characters and story arcs, but the time and investment, the late night whittling of our souls as we create in solitude knowing full well others will see this in the light of day. Knowing that even our best efforts, our most edited and beautiful prose may not be enough. And we’re all too aware when it hasn’t been, for ourselves or others.

A couple times this year I’ve pulled back from social media, some breaks have been intentional and others have just happened. I’ve noticed when I back away from social media, I feel better. The same with my daily calendar. When I say no and cancel plans, I feel more myself. It’s as if the weight of expectations fall away and I can simply be.

I miss the connections.

I miss seeing people’s creativity and celebrating the beauty of it.

I miss the memes and laughs.

But I don’t miss the pressure to perform, of always knowing what to say.

These days I feel a mumbling fool among queens of prose and heartfelt introspection. There’s pressure to be profound with every writerly reflection and prolific in word count and finished projects, while also maintaining old and making new connections. To offer writerly advice that is inspiring and useful, quick to the point while being authentic and true to ourselves is draining. It is unsustainable.

It’s a curation of self and art that is exhausting, but is there any other way to be an author these days? All signs point to no, but what if…?

I still don’t know what to say. I’ve rambled on and on here (the voice in the back of my head is telling me it’s too long and no one will read this). I can’t create in a pressure cooker, even if the industry shrugs its shoulders and says, “That’s just the way it is.”

I’m learning I want connection without busyness, both in person and online, but those are in contradiction in this day and age and industry. I feel more whole when I’m less encumbered, less connected, with less demands and expectations on my time and efforts.

As of now, I’m floating between content plans, hustle culture pushing on wounds of self-worth and production (and the allure of both), and the advice of my therapist to create when it’s enjoyable in this season, to pick a project and write for just the fun of it. (I’m trying, Andi.)

This is why I don’t think I’ll ever quite find my algorithm of people, I fail to follow a curated plan of consistency because online consistency doesn’t match with the inconsistency and ups & downs of my present life. I am not always put together with a themed book list, a good writerly quote, and a cozy reel. Sometimes I’m just a messy bun in yoga pants daydreaming about my characters and realizing I forgot to thaw meat for dinner.

And I’m coming to realize I can’t force one or the other.

I’ll hibernate when I need to hibernate, rest when I need to rest, and meander until I find a creative path that allows me the joy of creating and my own humanity.

How do you handle the pressures of producing, connecting, and the inconsistency of life?