The Mystery of the Frustrated Writer
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.”