June 22, 2016
We’re still waiting for our house to sell. Waiting for showings. We’re waiting for nibbles even. Waiting… waiting. Waiting for everything.
Meanwhile, since we were waiting and I wasn’t working, I thought… I’m a career writer now. Gotta get moving on it.
In the past, my summers have been spent writing. That’s how I managed to get the first two Delilah Duffy Mysteries written - cramming most of it in during the summer when I didn’t work. I thought I could get a lot of work done now, just the same as I did then. Might as well fill the waiting time with writing and get a great jump on it before we move, right? Besides, writing has always been a great escape for me. I needed the therapy.
And yet, I couldn’t do it.
My journal is filled with frustrated-writer-entries. I mapped out goals, resolutions, plans for how I’d spend my time. I scribbled things like “I don’t know where to start” and “I need a plan” (underlined three times). One day, I wrote, “I wanted today to be the first day of my full-time writing career, but it ended up being all about grocery shopping and laundry.” I noticed a definite theme in my rantings. I struggled to get a handle on my life when there was no handle to grab on to.
The journal was about all I could manage creatively. And even that was a struggle at times.
I had a full house with the kids out for summer and Joe working from home.
I had a house on the market, begging for a buyer.
I had rooms to pack, while maintaining perfect cleanliness.
I had no house to move to.
I had grief and guilt on top of stress.
It was endlessly frustrating to me then - why I couldn’t get the writer-ball rolling - but it makes perfect sense now. I needed to give myself a break.
This was the moving season. The waiting season.
Not the Writing Season. That would have to come later.
“We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps.”