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For awhile now, I've been feeling drained and exhausted, about my writing and about parts of my life. My husband equates it to carrying around a giant backpack. I packed it many years ago with things I thought I needed to succeed, to survive - including loyalty to my dreams, stubbornness, defensiveness, anger. And those things did keep me going for awhile, and I'm thoroughly glad I had them.
But they've taken on a weight I can no longer carry, one I no longer want to carry, one I no longer need to carry.
I'm making changes. I'm working on my weight - losing actual physical pounds - and re-thinking my writing, searching for the zest and the gusto again.
I am putting down the backpack. I'm a little nervous, but I am moving forward - unencumbered, joyful, ready.