Letting Go

I'm currently listening to a song called "Time for Letting Go" by Jude Cole, one of my favorite singers from the 1990s. It's appropriate for this post because there's some things I need to let go.

I wrote and published prolifically for years. Nine novels (one published). Two nonfiction books. Several magazine articles. I also did freelance book reviews and back cover copy. In addition to that, I worked a full-time job, raised a family, and endured an abusive marriage.

And I am tired.

When I made the move to Virginia, I did so with the intention of creating a life that I loved. That's meant taking a long, hard look at a lot of different aspects of my life, making tough decisions, and enduring a weird sort of grieving process. Let me explain.

I did all of those writing projects - freelance and otherwise - for many reasons. Yes, I was fascinated by several aspects of WW2 and I wanted to research and write about them, so I did. But the freelance stuff? I did it for the money, pure and simple. Why? Because I had a financially irresponsible husband, and I had to make sure the bills were paid and the kids taken care of. Growing up with two financially irresponsible parents only made my financial trauma that much more difficult to deal with. So I burned the candle at both ends and hollowed myself out.

I'm still feeling the effects of it years later. (Is it effects or affects? I'm too tired to look it up).

But on top of the burnout is this expectation that as a writer and historian, I need to produce and produce and produce. And not blog posts or Substack notes or emails - but publications. No, I'm not a professor and do not need to make tenure, but as an independent historian, the pressure to publish still exists.

Within the first month of moving to Virginia, I landed on a potential nonfiction book project. Camp Peary, known as "The Farm," the not so secret CIA training facility, is located on the outskirts of where I live. During WW2, US Navy Seabees trained here. Italian and German POWs were also imprisoned here. And lo and behold, no one has written a book about Camp Peary during WW2. It's like the project just fell into my lap. In looking at my archival resources, I discovered a rich trove here in Virginia as well as in the national archives in D.C. which is now a three-hour train ride away.

This is a postcard from Camp Peary during WW2

I want to write this book. I do. 

But I can't right now. And this makes me grieve. 

Why? Because I desperately want to write it, but my health won't allow it. My brain and my body can't do it. Add in the complete chaos happening on a daily basis in America and it's just...nope. Not happening. It's all I can do to work my full time job and maybe write in the evenings if I have the energy. 

Do I feel guilty for that? You bet I do. I see so many people being incredibly prolific, and I envy them. I also think I should be just like them and write all the things, limitations be damned. But I  can't. I've yet to accept it. I'm not sure what stage of grief I'm in - but I'm not at acceptance yet. Anger? Denial? Probably both. 

But for my own peace of mind, I definitely need to accept this new reality. I'm damn proud of what I've already accomplished. And if I never publish anything again (gulp. That makes me really, really sad), at least I've got some books out there in the world.

I'm not saying I'll never start the nonfiction project, but right now is not the time. I need to learn more about my new state, familiarize myself with the area, and do a lot of research into where I live before I can even begin to think about starting that project. It'll take time. I need to give myself that time.

Until then, I'm going to focus exclusively on my new novel. I'm enjoying it so far, and as its lighthearted women's fiction, it's a welcome change of pace and escape from the current world we're living in. 

I'm also going to focus on my health. I cleaned up my diet a LOT (which I hope will bring down my cholesterol and triglycerides) and have an appointment set up for a pelvic physical therapist for my adhesions. I went on a walk the other day and hopefully, if I can get the pain in my abdomen to settle down, I can continue that this week. Who knows? Maybe I'll start to feel better. I know I won't be cured, but if I can pace myself well and prioritize my health, I can manage my chronic illnesses. 

So. It's time for letting go...of expectations...of perfect health...of guilt...

And time to be okay with what is.