I went to my once a month writers group last night—and that was a mistake. It made me depressed, wistful, longing for the days I so recently took for granted, days in which I wrote for the majority of the time my kids were at school. It made my heart hurt and my stomach knot to hear one woman’s wonderful recounting of a recent conference where she made good contacts and had good responses to her work.
I want that again. I want to be in that place of fulfillment. Not publication, necessarily, but fulfillment, satisfaction in the doing of what I was made to do, the act of glorifying God through the sliver of His creativity He endowed to me.
So I came home last night with fingers aching. And yet I can’t do midnight writing. My eyes refuse to hold my contacts without extreme pain for more than 17 or so hours and I can’t see with my outdated, coke-bottle glasses. At least not unless something is up in my face. So I wrote longhand, ideas for a one sheet, although I still struggling with how that is the same or different from a project sheet. I summarized my three “finished” novels (is anything ever REALLY finished?), as well as my two most crystallized ideas for new works. It felt good to do a little something and yet it again made me sad, made me want to run away for a week—even two—and do just what I want to do.
But somehow I don’t think that’s what God intended with His gift. Somehow He intended me to use it in the midst of life, to show not only His creativity but His strength manifested through my weakness. Can I step back, acknowledge my frailty, my exhaustion, and yet walk forward by His power?
I don’t know yet. Right now I just feel weak.
So I packed three boxes, cleaned out my car, and hurled this question into cyberspace, a question I’m sure five bazillion other writers in the course of time have asked. Did they get an answer? They must have. Otherwise there wouldn’t be so many books.