It's like, at the end, there's this surprise quiz: Am I proud of me? I gave my life to become the person I am right now. Was it worth what I paid? -Richard Bach
I’m idling in neutral right now, during this lovely ingress into summer. That’s a precarious position. I have no pressing book tasks – blurb requests have gone out, publicist’s survey complete – until late August. I have no fall class to prepare, only vague writing ideas without deadlines or expectations.
What the hell am I doing? At 59, this feeling of meaninglessness is less destructive, but still difficult to navigate, a vicious, consuming, imploding spiral. Everything I consider seems stupid. Self-disgust translates into irritation with the world, globally, locally, past, present.
My parents would say, “Do something for someone else.” But who needs me right now?
Breathe deep. Move forward. Emulate dogs and daisies.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 301: 146 words, TOTAL = 49,651; 10,349 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families.