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.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Have you heard the story about the little child with the broken toy, and how he kept asking his father to fix it? The father would say, "Hand it to me, child," and the child would respond with, "wait a minute, I think if I just try this one thing ..." Frustrated, the child finally yelled at his father, "Why didn't you fix my toy?!" and the father could only respond, "Child, you never let go."
ReplyDeleteI think often that our dreams are like that toy. I think we believe we know how to work them, make them come true, what's the best way for our dream to come true for us - all the while denying our Father in heaven the chance to work them out for us. It's only when we finally let go that we allow Him the freedom to do what He's always wanted to do for us, because He loves us that much.
Perhaps that's what will happen with writing for you - a chance for your dreams to come true in ways that you never even considered before you let go.
*hugs*
I think you're exactly right, Fal.
ReplyDeleteWow, Sherri - this is huge! I think it's one of the most mature things we can do - figure out where reality and our dreams can meet and then, of course, be happy about it. You're a wonderful writer whether or not you get published, or famous, or rich, or not. Much, much love to you.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Angela. I'm glad you're still around, despite my infrequent postings.
ReplyDeleteI'm not sure what to say, but I'll cheer you on no matter you do.
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