2019 was not a great year for me. I had to deal with family illnesses, family/friend conflicts, turmoil in loved ones’ lives, and my absolute failure in accomplishing anything for myself. Of course, illnesses and problems don’t begin on January 1 and end on December 31, so some things will continue to be issues to be dealt with in 2020, but with at least some of the hurdles behind me, I hope to enter the new year with a small ray of hope of achieving some goals.
One of those is my writing. I haven’t completed anything of any length for quite some time. My writing got pushed aside and everything else took priority. Even when I had a little time to myself, I found that my desire to work on my writing wasn’t there. It’s different for everyone, but for me, when things get heavy, when the burdens of life make me feel like I’m on the losing side of a battle, it’s difficult to write. It makes me feel too vulnerable and like it’s open season on my emotions. I also lose confidence, in myself and in my writing. And that makes me frustrated and resentful.
I’m not good when it comes to pity and sympathy. I can offer it to others without blinking an eye, and mean it sincerely. But when it comes to getting it from others, it doesn’t sit well with me. I’ve never been one to want pity and sympathy, I’ve only wanted to be respected. And that’s one of the hardest things to get in life: respect. Pity and sympathy abound, but respect? Not so much. I’d like to say that respect is hard won—and it is. But sometimes, respect is misplaced. Sometimes the wrong people are respected. Sometimes the right people are respected but for the wrong reasons. (I can’t imagine a situation where the wrong people are respected for the right reason.)
When I feel a lack of respect, it bleeds into my writing life. I feel as if I could write a masterpiece and it wouldn’t make a difference because no one respects me or my writing. Well, I have to just keep reminding myself that my writing makes me respect myself, even if no one else does.