Hello From The Other Side

It's been a bit, so here's a little update. Spoiler alert: I will write again

Hello from the other side.

It’s been months since I’ve sat down to blog, or worked on writing, or attempted to form my wild, racing thoughts into coherent sentences. Months. Actual months.

I’ve never gone this long before. Not in my entire adult life. Even before I was a published author, I still made time to blog and work on books that had yet to be finished. I didn’t have a schedule or exact routine. But I have always made time to write. Until now.

There was that short absence during COVID—that honestly set my entire writing career back to the beginning—but it was much shorter than this stretch. And even if I hadn’t been publishing during that time, I’d still been plunking away word-by-word on stories I loved.

Over these last six months, I have hardly opened my computer. In fact, I’ve avoided it as much as possible save for the occasional bill pay. It’s been hard to look at her, to meet her searching gaze. I’ve oscillated furiously between feeling like my creativity was a dry, barren desert to feeling as though writing had passed me by and there was no point, to knowing I couldn’t live without writing but not knowing where to start, or jump in, or apply my minimal efforts.

If you would have asked me why I was writing, I think I would have come up with something about not having the energy. I’m working 40 hours a week, after all, at a non-creative job. It depletes my strength. I’m tired at the end of the day—like most everyone else. Overstimulated. Worn out. There are a hundred things to do in the evenings—kids sporting activities to attend, dinner to make, laundry to try to keep up with, house projects that never end. Of course, I can’t find time to write between sprinting from one task to the next.

But the truth is—I mean, the real, gritty, nasty truth, the kind I don’t like to admit to anyone, not even myself—is that I’m scared. Terrified actually.

The last four years of my career have been an absolute mess. If you couldn’t tell… hahaha. I’ve lacked direction, confidence, and purpose. I keep trying things. And those things keep failing from a business standpoint. And that failure eventually snowballed into a breakdown one year ago.

It was the lowest I’ve ever been in my adult life. And it was really awful. It also led to some truly beautiful and authentic healing. (To be fair, it wasn’t all writing related. There was a whole lot going on in my personal life at the time. And it all sort of culminated at once.)

But in this year of turn around, where I feel myself healing and growing and untangling myself from years—maybe even a lifetime—of insecurity and doubt, I have yet to make much progress on the writing front.

Gosh, I love the things I was writing before I stepped away. Blood Spell is one of my most favorite projects ever. I was thrilled to be finishing up Starbright. There is a book I’m working on finishing for my agent. I love that dang love story. I love the depth of it. The complexity of it. The journey it takes.

But the confidence I used to have in writing has all but disappeared. Having faced failure so many times, I accidentally adapted it as part of my identity. Somewhere along the way I stopped being a struggling writer and became a failed author. (Maybe not in reality, but definitely in my head.)

How do these things even happen? How did I go from teaching seminars and having books on favorite-of-all-time lists and being at home in my career to wondering if I should even open my computer because what’s the point? Because I don’t think anybody wants to hear from me. Because writing broke my heart and I am currently untangling myself from trust issues that rival the worst sort of relationships.

Yikes, that’s hard to face. Or to admit out loud.

I’m not usually so melancholy. And please don’t think I’m spiraling back towards depression. Because again, HEALING. There are parts of me that are so vibrant and beautiful right now, I get misty-eyed every time I think of how far I’ve come. I am not sinking over here, I am thriving. Truly.

Except in this neglected, weed-covered space—which is truly one of the most important areas of my life. I love writing more than anything. It breathes life into me. It settles my rambunctious mind and calibrates my soul toward peace. It helps me see how I feel. And know what I think. I have the most fun unleashing my imagination and letting her run absolutely wild. For me, writing equals pure, unadulterated joy.

And I am desperate to get back to this place where I can just simply create.

So why am I writing any of this depressing nonsense down and sharing it with you?? I guess, because I want you to know, and believe, that I will figure this out. That I can’t help but figure this out. I have genuinely tried to walk away from this writing gig more than once. And I can’t do it. God created me to write, to share stories and worlds and grace with this world. It is not just something He gifted me with, it is my gift to give away.

I just first, must find some solid ground to stand on. My wobbly knees are too weak to find footing. My fingers tremble at the keyboard. My heart races in a panicked gallop. And yet, today, I decided to show up anyway.

So maybe, we’ll start here. In publishing and creating baby steps. With blogs about life. And love. And parenting. And church hurt. And healing. And writing. And whatever else jumps into this beautiful brain.

I want to write again. And so I will. I will write again starting now.

There is no pressure in this lilting, meandering way. There is only practice. And budding consistency. And gentle grace for myself and for you, dear reader—whomever you may be. There is the simple trying. There is the willful, gritty one-word-at-a-time. There is the indomitable hope that still burns despite how dark the night has gotten.

This determined, dogged faith that raggedly whispers, I will write again. I will write again. I will write again.