Balance

Yeah, I'm learning. This has been quite the test. Moving, becoming the breadwinner, and trying to maintain a vise-grip on my title as domestic goddess. Somewhere in there, I fit in writing and a dash of fun to keep my life in check. Invariably, I slip somewhere. Guess where it's been lately? My poor blog has been so neglected.

The writing has been fun. I'm filling in the middle, and it's not terrible. In fact, I learned something. My manuscript is nearly finished. I thought I had two chapters to go, but I'm wrapping it up now. There's nothing more to be said, no more poor horse to continue beating. A few more pages, and my characters will have shared as much of their story that they're going to. The good news is we're all okay with that. Soon, I'll begin a whole new round of queries, and maybe this story will tickle the fancy of those who couldn't feel the last one.

Each story is practice. An exercise of the imagination and skill. That's what I need to remember. If you'd asked me years ago if I even thought I could finish a story, I'd have told you no. I had gobs of ideas, but I never believed that I could actually do it. Yet, I never stopped writing. I just never finished. Fast forward, and I have 2.9 finished books under my belt. In each, the theme feels the same, but the stories are very different. How could I have doubted myself? Easy. I let fear be my guide. And what a treacherous guide fear was!

Fear choked my confidence. Stopped me from sharing my passion with others--even loved ones. Fear choked my hard-drive with incomplete novels, which only proved to serve that fear was right. So what pushed me forward? I'm still trying to solve that puzzle. A large part of overcoming for me had to have been finding a group of folks trekking the same trail. I won't be so PC as to say all of these people were helpful or had pure designs, but they did know what I suffered. Sadly, some of them chose to sit on the trail while others plodded on. Hiding their fourteen manuscripts under the bed, taking them out only to beat those of us in the single digits over the head when opportunity availed.

I took the beating and learned from it. More than not to trample on others' hopes, too. I've figured out that all of us who call ourselves writers do so with varying levels of purpose. There was a time I was just proud to finish a book. Publication was almost non-existent on my goal radar. I don't know when that changed. All I know is my intention changed. The burning that inspired me to write in the first place swelled to an inferno pointing me to see my work on bookshelves. Allow me to indulge some relativism here. I don't think any of these perspectives are wrong. Some of us bike the path, some will run, drive, wind sail; and some of us need to sit and take a break. It's all good. This is a journey that seems to be more about the why than the how.

What's your take? My feelings won't be hurt if you tell me I'm just blowing smoke, but I sure am curious. Happy trails ;)