I've had this as a draft on Blogger for 2 months now. I keep meaning to sit down and do it, but that's exactly what this post is about.

Let me explain.
To see me in this new, good place I'm in, you must first go back in time to see me in a very sad place.
(Hold on to your pants. This is turning out to be a long one.)
I've been a write-a-holic for the last 3.5 years. Ever since I decided to quit school and write full time and work full time, I realized I had to show everyone how serious I was about writing before they'd take me seriously. I heard all the arguments - and I knew how to answer. They said I'd be a better writer by going to school (no, you become a better writer by reading and writing consistently), that publishers would pick me up faster if they saw I had a degree (every author I spoke to about this told me that's not true), that I'd make more money if I got a degree and a job and then wrote (because the economy is so bad, no job is guaranteed with or without a degree, and I'd rather not go $80,000 in debt for a degree that does not guarantee me a job, and would take away from me actually writing).
It still wasn't enough, but people sat back quietly and watched me work.
That's when I started cranking out drafts. It was fast, exciting. Every two or three months I'd have a new draft of something. I let people read my work for the first time, too - and I got a freaking amazing response. Now I had their attention. Now they knew I was serious and that, God willing, I could make a career out of this.
But let's be real - in the beginning of this endeavor, I was depressed, and I was hardly working. I had a nighttime job that I could sleep at and get paid for. I still lived with my parents, so no rent. I had minor car and phone bills.
And then I lost my job. My boss was moving, and even though there was a possible library position opening up, there was no promise.
My depression, which I denied at the time, became infinitely worse. I gained even more weight (I was already a bigger girl). I ate poorly and had terrible sleeping habits.
Needless to say, for the next year, I worked a consistent 8-12 hours a week. It was barely enough to pay the rent I was paying (I now lived next door in my parents' casita with my best friend) and buy food. I barely made it.
But the whole time, I was writing. I had time during the day - lots of it - so I wrote fast and I wrote well. I finished a lot of drafts - close to 18 in the last 3.5 years. I was even getting closer to querying. I started daydreaming about my first contemporary novel.
And then I was blessed with an amazing full-time job as a nanny. Things....started getting out of hand. Working 34-36 hours a week AND writing at this pace I'd kept up for 1.5 years was IMPOSSIBLE. But I strived. I slowed down, sure, but I tried so hard to keep up with old Sierra.
That put me deeper into depression. It was horrible.
I finished a contemporary and started a new one, all the while taking a break from my fantasy to reevaluate everything. I went with my family to China to adopt my little brother (which comes with its own set of issues, as amazing as it has been).
I was just as depressed as this new contemporary MC - and I couldn't see either of those facts. I struggled with Aspen for literally 9 months, all the while plotting new stories, editing my first contemporary (and even querying and getting full/partial manuscript requests!), and writing other things. Finally, around the time Aspen budged, I budged.
I was depressed, I realized fully, finally. So is Aspen. I was holding on to a lot of things - just like Aspen. I needed to let them go, exactly as I was describing in the book. (The details on how/why I let go are personal and spiritual, and not why I'm writing this, but if you want to know, feel free to email me or DM me on Twitter. <3)
After that, I started to see things clearly. I knew exactly what story to write next. I knew how to end Aspen's story. I knew when to start editing my fantasy again. I knew I needed help with my first contemporary and someone (a professional and someone I now consider a friend) offered at just the right time.
And then I saw the rest of my life clearly: how hard I was working to pay my bills; how badly I needed a little bit of a social life; how I had put off the people who needed me, who I needed; how I needed to change how I treated my family.
All these things were suddenly just as important as my writing. And they were going to take time. Time to overcome, and time out of my day.
Equally suddenly: I was okay with that. I wouldn't put so much pressure on myself to write 2,000 words every time I had a day off. (And I'd be okay with not blogging as much as I'd hoped to, because there was so much going on.) I'd write for an hour, I told myself, and hope the words came. If they didn't, I'd go about my day. I'd get coffee with a friend, I'd hang out with my fambam. And then later when I'd done the dishes or swept my house, I'd try again. But only for an hour, because who needs that kind of stress??
And here's the thing: MY PACE PICKED UP. I wrote more in those meager hours than I had in full days set aside for writing. The words were better, too, I realized. I was even inspired to start a new (very top secret) story that I'm almost 10K words into.
On the days I don't get to write, sure I'm bummed. I love writing, even in the hard times. But I stepped back. I reevaluated my whole life. I balanced myself.
I gave myself permission to live my life.
In doing so, I become a better writer, a better plotter, a better story teller each day. "I'm tired today (and for good reason). Maybe I'll fold clothes and watch an episode of Criminal Minds and be inspired by another writer instead." "I don't think I have a full hour, but I'll write a quick 300 words and then read." "I have the full day off and a lot of energy, but I'll set the timer for two hours of writing and then I'll go exercise."
As much as I want to make writing my career, it's not yet. I have to make a living for myself other ways in the meantime, and I have to be inspired to write by experience. I can't do either of those things if I'm trying to force myself to write words that won't come.
It's a vicious cycle.
And I broke it.
10/10 would recommend.