Cleolinda Jones (cleolinda) wrote,
Cleolinda Jones

Catching up, checking in

So, a lot of things have happened.

Roger Ebert dead at 70 after battle with cancer.

@TheAVClub: Some thoughts on the death of Roger Ebert, a man who meant a lot to us

@mikeryan: This wasn't easy, but I wrote about Roger Ebert. Specifically, how he was so smart but never made me feel stupid.

@nprmonkeysee: Esquire's profile of Ebert remains a thing of absolute beauty.

A couple of weeks ago, my grandmother also passed away--she would have been 90 this past week, but it still happened sort of suddenly, and then the memorial and funeral were fraught with family issues (that turned out all right), but still. And before that, I hurt my back and ended up in bed on ice packs for about a week. (How did I manage this? I leaned down to pet Shelby and rose back up the wrong way, somehow. Genius.) I was struggling to manage the seasonal depression/bipolar mood-cycle thing and was doing pretty well, although it definitely took active management... until these last two weeks, but being sad is, you know, kind of a reasonable reaction. It's tough. I don't know. I spent about a week just going around saying "I don't know" every other sentence just like that, in fact.

I don't post much anymore because I can't really think of much to say. I know it's been eons since the last Secret Life of Dolls; honestly, I think the pictures would be more difficult than the writing at this point, but people (understandably) don't seem to enjoy the story as much without the pictures, I don't know (stop that!). I've mostly, purposefully been e-hibernating (yes, for months now) trying to finish The Novel of the Damned, which is now in its tenth year of writing and research, and will be a great and inspiring example to other struggling writers IF I EVER FINISH IT.

--oh, shit. I never did Breaking Dawn 2 in Fifteen Minutes, did I? Oh God, don't make me go back to that. (I have to go back to that. WE HAVE TO GO BACK TO THE SPARKLEPIRES, KATE!)

I don't know. I want to blog (journal? do we "journal" anymore?) and I want to be here but I just feel so finite and small--shy and inadequate. Like, "this is all I have," and "all I have" has to go towards the book. And I feel bad that "all I have," in terms of energy and fortitude, is apparently so little. Like... Twitter. Twitter is about what I can manage. Sometimes not even that, because I feel anxious and grey and weighed-down if I spend too much time on it. I'm thinking about recapping a show again (I haven't even watched actual TV in forever), just to have something to blog about regularly, but I think we all know how my recapping goes--place your bets now as to how many episodes I'll get through before life happens and I wander off again! (Honestly, I'm kind of proud that I recapped all the Twilight books back in the day, because, so help me, I recapped them all.) Being aware of your limitations is a funny thing--do you have an honest, helpful idea of what you can and can't do, or do you let your own perception of limits hold you back? Maybe I didn't write the Breaking Dawn thing because I felt like nothing I could come up with would live up to everyone's expectations--so I've let any hope of it being timely or relevant slip through my fingers. At which point, if I wrote it now, I'd have much lower expectations to live up to. When did I last post anything on The Secret Life of Dolls? Three years ago? I think people would like to see it back again, but--what could I write that would feel like a three-year break was worth it? What novel could be worth ten years? I know what you'll say to me, because I know what I'd say to someone else: "It doesn't matter! Just write it, write anything! It's worth it no matter how long it takes!" These are just the mathematics of anxiety, I guess.

I think there was a point where I needed to dig a hole and go somewhere quiet to get some work done, but I don't know how to climb out of it now, I guess, is what I'm saying. I just want to finish something. I'm afraid I don't know how to anymore. (That sounds pitifully ominous.) Mostly it just feels like a lot of fumbling and uncertainty and recovery, in some way. I don't know.

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