I’ll be honest. I have written hardly anything of note in the past month. A mere whisper of words added to my book manuscript about the Old Norse world. A scattering of blog musings. An article outline or two. Meager showing for a writer.
I have to remind myself that I am a tortoise. Sometimes I crawl, ever so slowly, towards my goal. A word here or there. A thought or phrase scribbled down before it can be lost to fibrofog’s mysterious timeless bog. That’s really all I can do, slog forward, one heavy mud-sucked foot at a time.
I am so frustrated. I begin to doubt my fire, my intelligence, my writing ability. What kind of writer barely touches her manuscript for an entire month?! I thrash into the lonely pre-dawn hours to shadows that mock my fibro-induced insomnia. I want to use the torturous tossing and turning productively, but my brain is trapped and dull. I am a tired out-dated computer, circa 2000, that everyone has forgotten in the corner, transfixed by the newest, fastest, shiniest model.
Yes, I am a tortoise. A very frustrated tortoise.
But still I plod, ever forward. I refuse to give up, to let fibromyalgia steal my intelligence. It’s still there, wavering just out of reach behind a dense wall. If I summon every ounce of energy, sometimes I break through, ink a few more thoughts, before I collapse exhausted. I retreat to recharge and attempt the assault once more.
Maybe this month will be different. Maybe the fog and exhaustion will suddenly clear and I will fall over from the shock of my feet suddenly footloose and fancy-free. My mind will leap and bound; my fingers fly unhinged across the keyboard; my dusty manuscript growing and my blog healthy once more.
I cannot predict the whims of fibromyalgia. But I can keep going.
I grasp one thought as I battle through each day. I am the tortoise. I am a writer. And I WILL write.