What am I to do?

It is cold in my study today. There has been no morning sun to take the chill off and I am here in my extra cardigan, fingerless gloves, knee rug, and scarf. The heater is on, despite my vague worry about the bill and the planet going to hell because I am cold and can probably afford to run the fan heater.

More and more I have been turning to this blog as a warm-up to my new WIP (Work in progress). I seem unable to sit and pick up where I left off and so glance sideways at the blog.

It seems easier, somehow, to write short, creative non-fiction, autobiographical pieces than get to the business of the serious WIP plus the poems that need to be tidied and sent on their way.

I suspect this hesitation is a sign of a deeper problem. One I have been aware of for some time but was able to ignore until I graduated. Even though the graduation is still fresh and the dust has hardly settled, there are some decisions that need to be made. Decisions that will make themselves, should I remain passive.

I’ve changed my name on LinkedIn and receive friendly emails addressed to ‘Dr Shelly’. I signed up to receive job adverts and so at least twice a day LinkedIn emails me to let me know that I could be a Head of Learning in Jindabyne or a core teacher with some international school or other. Not that I am seriously looking for a new job.

Well, not really. There are several jobs that if they came along, I would give thought to. Being an academic at Deakin floats my boat, as does teaching at my old high school. The first is rarer than hen’s teeth and the second is full-time. I am too far into the year to leave my students now.

For funsies, I tried changing my name on Facebook but FB is touchy about titles. I can call myself Hairybellybutton but not Dr. That’s fine. I don’t really want to be a Dr in that space. It’s a place to hang out with mates. I like it that way.

The question is:

What next?

I have the “Dr” and a body of work to draw from. It is now up to me to get on with it.

Even though my toes are still cold, it is warming up in here. I’ve turned the heater off rather than take off the layers. That’s only because you are here and I’m partial to the occasional moment of virtue signaling.

I should be content with teaching. It is a good job. Yes, it can really suck, too, but mostly it is reliable work with some free overtime thrown in by me so that I don’t go insane. Part-time means that I have space to do other things, like write budgets and think about how to be more frugal. If you weren’t here I might admit to using that time for faffing about and other wasteful activities but you are, so I won’t.

I could work full-time but it would take too many weekends with marking and I’ve become jealously possessive of entire days when I don’t have to think about school at all.

I blame all of this on being a late-bloomer.

I feel too old to be fussing over what I am going to do next, and yet here I am, fussing. I want to write but my focus is like trying to site land from a rough sea. I tell myself that once I feel rested, things will come clear. But, seriously, how much rest does a person need? Maybe I just need new glasses?

This is the downside of having finished a PhD. There are no firm deadlines and no supervisor to talk to. Finding publishing opportunities takes time and courage. It distracts from actual writing. And as for thinking!

My goodness, who has time to think when there are proper things to avoid?

I will blame you, reader.

I am getting to know you. I like you. I like chatting with you. Telling you things. So I would rather get a cup of tea and sit and natter than attend to other stuff.

What?

Stop gasbagging and get back to work.

That is what friends are for.

See you next time. Xx

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Next time. The day after.

I got a good thousand words down—thanks for your encouragement. I also remembered a good way to gain momentum is to read books about writing and poetry.

In my pile of books-I-must-own-but-may-not-read-for-some-time-if-ever I found Murder Your Darlings: And other gentle writing advice from Aristotle to Zinsser, by Roy Peter Clark (2020).

You should get it and stare at it for a while. You might find what I found: a reminder of the tribe I belong to.

This is the decision: I write.

It never really was a decision, was it? The fact that when home alone the other night, and imagining someone hiding in my walk-in-robe, I picked up a pen to defend myself says it all.

Funny how we can’t see the forest for the trees.