Running Away

A tree in Yellowstone NP, since my fantasy sometimes centers around hiding there or in Grand Teton NP.

A tree in Yellowstone NP, since my fantasy sometimes centers around hiding there or in Grand Teton NP.

I’m leaving for vacation tomorrow. I’ll spend a week in Vegas, relaxing with family, writing, and doing a little bit of violin playing.

I really need the trip. Things have been piling up and weighing down on me lately. I think I reached a breaking point yesterday. If I wasn’t about to leave for a trip, I would have started planning an emergency overnight somewhere, probably in the mountains. We can’t normally afford vacations where we have to pay for a place to stay, but in this case I was desperate enough that I would have found a way to make it happen.

My husband was teasing me last night because I’m planning to take my computer with me. If it was a laptop he wouldn’t have said anything, but since it’s a desktop I guess it is like hauling a TV on vacation with me. Still, I’m not going to leave myself without the opportunity to write for a whole week. Especially since I’ve been too mentally overwhelmed to do it lately. I don’t think I’ve written in almost a week. I need to get back to it.

Sometimes, when I’m driving to the town up north for work, or driving back down to Denver to go home, I have a fantasy of just staying on the freeway and driving past them, either heading north into Wyoming or south to Colorado Springs. I get a hotel or a cabin for a few nights and just hide away, me and the baby. I tell my husband where I am, but no one else. I don’t even talk to anyone else.

I don’t know if that fantasy means anything bad except that I’m stressed and overwhelmed. I’m having that feeling again like I really don’t know what I want to do with my life. My husband keeps suggesting things I might like, but I’m so hung up on writing. I kind of feel like if I don’t make a push for it now, I might never do it. If I spend all my energy working toward some other goal, writing will take a back seat. I don’t want that.

I honestly think I’d be okay with working hard to finish my book, spending a year editing and rewriting it, finding an agent, submitting it to publishers, and getting no response. Of course, it would be devastating, like the end of a dream I’ve had since I was little. I just mean that I’d be okay taking the time to try if the alternative is never knowing what would happen if I’d taken the time. It wouldn’t feel like it had been wasted. I’d rather do it and fail than not do it, I guess. I say that now, but I really don’t know how I’ll feel if that happens. Guess I have to try it and see.

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