Hope

It’s been almost two years since I’ve opened many of my writing drafts. I’ve been taking a few minutes every day to make certain all my files have been converted—something I haven’t paid attention to for two years either (worse still—my computer crashed at the summit of my illness.)I’ve mentioned the reasons in previous blogs to death, but suffice to say, treatment and the way I felt—sometimes, once I started feeling up to write, I’d wake up with my head on the desk and no writing done—got in the way of my making much progress in my writing.

In the process, I’ve read a few of my old drafts of short stories, essays and poems. (Haven’t converted the novel files yet.) Quite a few were nearly done and ready to submit. Many needed work, some had been submitted and rejected, but I think still viable. This revisiting of my writing has actually upped my confidence. The writing is good and because I truly believe saleable work depends on rewrites, I know I could make it excellent.

Oh, I have drawbacks:

1. Not enough time-I’m still caring for an elderly parent which continues to take more time, the yard and house vying for my attention, meals to prepare, other interests and projects.
2. I get tired faster and I’m suppose to avoid stress.
3. No critique group, no real reader to catch problems I overlook
4. My office is in disarray. It needs purging and organizing. I’ve neglected it for two 5years now.

Despite all that, I feel ready to tackle all that and start on writing more than the poetry. Yet, I don’t want to lose all I’ve gained there either, so I’m going to move slow. Tackle the easiest rewrites first. Spend weekends when I can clearing out my office. All the while working on my poetry goals. It will be a challenge, but I’m up to it.

All this I do with hope. Hope to be able to do it. Hope something will be published. Hope I’ll stay healthy, but there’s nothing wrong with hope. In fact, hope is necessary. I know this because I’ve been hopeless and that’s no way to live.