Can I be really honest for a second?
I haven’t been writing lately.
Other than here anyway.
And that terrifies me.
I am out on submission which is an exciting, stressful, boring, soul-baring, doubt monster awakening time.
When I signed with my agent in December, I was at the start of my first revision pass of a new manuscript. I put it aside to deep dive into my previous work to get it ready for sub.
Returning to this story this spring has been hard. Like Sisyphus moving giant rocks up a mountain hard.
I just can’t seem to find my way back into the story.
I kept showing up to my daily online writing dates and trying but even opening the document felt painful. A solid weight would settle just under my ribs, sinking against my diaphragm, making it uncomfortable to sit in the chair.
I played around with my outline at times. I attended a workshop on emotion in fiction and used scenes from it for the exercises. I brainstormed.
But no matter what I did, I couldn’t bring myself to work on it. Not real work. I’ve been doing the equivalent of pushing food around my plate with words for an hour and a half most days.
Or simply giving up and working on something else–coaching work, this newsletter, the sudoku puzzle.
Was it me? Was it the story?
I finally sent out an SOS text to a group of writer friends who have all been in my submission shoes before.
The advice was fast, detailed, and validating.
I’m not alone. And wow is there power (and relief) in numbers.
It seems that this purgatory time screws with our confidence and our muse. The struggle may show up in different ways, but it weighs us down until we find a way to slowly but surely get strong enough to carry it again.
For me, it comes down to fear. Despite an agent seeing something in me, I am now at the next rubicon of rejection and that feels scary. Despite having written three manuscripts before, I wonder if I can do this again. All the weaknesses in my writing feel on display, especially as I review this rough draft. I suddenly feel outside eyes in a way I haven’t before, and it feels like shadowed figures in the bushes watching with glowing eyes from old cartoons.
In these writing dates, we start the day checking in. One of our moderators likes to ask us to share and own something we’re good at as a writer.
Boy does this question torture me each and every time.
I dread when my turn comes up and try to crack a joke about how much I hate this question to distract from whatever wishy-washy statement I’m about to provide in an effort to quickly move on to the next person.
But the fact is, I truly hate it. I feel exposed. Found out. That doubt monster is loud in those moments.
I know I have skills, but owning a specific piece of the craft feels impossible right now. Especially as I face a rough, rough draft that is begging for sculpting into a story.
But that isn’t bringing me joy right now. Which is weird because typically I love revision.
So back to my SOS text.
In all the back and forth, these writer friends gave me permission to put this story aside.
To leave it be. Let it sit.
And go do something else.
Anything else.
I have a baby idea noodling in my head. An inkling of some characters.
I set a goal this week to play with them. Brainstorm their problems. Their goals. What sort of story they might move through.
I am excited about this.
And yet.
I am still struggling to get to that page.
And so I am confessing to you that I am not writing right now.
I don’t know if that’s okay or not.
It is what it is.
It is what is real and true for me right now.
But I’m going to start trying all the things.
I am going to enter a flash fiction contest.
Journal.
Pick up my watercolors (I am in no way artistic, I just like to play with colors and shapes) and make bad art. (Fellow writer Pamela Stockwell wrote about something similar this week).
I am going to keep showing up to my writing dates and sit in community with these other writers when they are just plain killing it with their word count and their revision and their marketing projects and cheer them on. I will offer support to the others who are like me on any given day, plodding along and making ourselves available to the muse for when it’s our turn.
Back in the early days of writing, I struggled to call myself a writer out loud.
I don’t anymore. Even today. Even when I’m not writing. I am a writer because while the struggle right now is real, I wouldn’t give it up for anything. I know the joy will return. I know the work will come.
The not writing is what proves I am writer.
Because I want to be writing. Desperately.
So one day, I will.
Because I keep showing up.
I keep trying.
I am a writer.