Those of you closest to me know that I've been going through an internal crisis in my writing. The waiting got to me. I stopped enjoying it, number one, and number two, I started thinking maybe I wasn't cut out to be a writer. A little over a month ago I hurt my right hand. My laptop broke. Fragrance started to become a big issue again. It wasn't just hard to write--as it had been for the previous few months--it was physically impossible. The weight of my imagined failings crushed me into creative indecision. I was stuck.
I was stuck, but accepting. I decided to let go of the dream. I cleared Google Reader of all industry blogs; told my friends I didn't want to talk writing; backed up my documents and took the shortcuts off my desktop. I sorted the hand-written pages scattered around the house and put away my idea notebooks.
Of course, it's been impossible to rid myself of all writing-related thoughts. I still believe I'm a writer in my soul, just maybe not the kind I thought. The thing crushing me was a lack of forward motion. I knew if I had an offer from a publisher, or even a couple of good rejections, I'd jump right back in. That's why I decided to try editing. I know I'm a language person, and since it was apparent I wouldn't be published anytime soon, at least I could feed that part of me helping real authors realize their dream.
This month off has relaxed me. I started thinking of writing the way I do my long-dead dog, Frito, and my years of college--nostalgia, with a touch of regret. Complete acceptance. It really was over, but it was going to be okay. Finally out of the wheel-rut, I could see the world around me for the first time in a long time. It was nice. Quiet.
The past few days I've started thinking maybe I could take up writing again, someday. The burning desire is still there, but the ideas are not. I think this is because that part of my heart, the writer part, has not healed yet. I've been cutting at it for a long time, and it will take a while. But at least I can see the healing is possible. The ideas will come back. Someday.
This whole thing started out being a redirect to a post on Rachelle Gardner's blog, but that post resonates so loudly, mirrors my situation so clearly...I guess I needed to confess it more than I knew. It's a sign at the crossroad, showing the way to my destination. If I don't end my life as a published author, it'll be okay. And, obviously, vice versa. The point is that it's not up to me. I'm ready to accept the gifts God gives me, instead of lamenting the ones he didn't.