Try, Repeat (A lot), Success

I got lost in death. Then I was diagnosed with disease. Even typing the words are a struggle. It’s been almost two years. I’m recovered in the sense that most of my daily life is unimpacted by what I endured the past four years. My writing froze. It wasn’t writer’s block, it was something else.

It’s like soil stripped of its essentials, no minerals, no bacteria, nothing left to give. It needs time to settle, come to peace and then slowly, one microorganism at a time, come to life.

When I started on my writing journey I had one past to overcome. Now I have three. It’s harder. My mind bounces from stress to stress like a ping pong ball, never settling, falling into pits and then being roughly flung out again because life doesn’t stop. You have to carry the weight of your struggles to the grocery store, the gas station or your kid’s sporting event.

I haven’t given up. I’m reorganizing. I started the blog because it was one of the tasks on the author list to succeed. Step One: An online presence. Step Two: A following. That might be nice and good for the millennials and Gen Z’s, but I’m not a fan of the lime light. Selfies and vlogging aren’t right for me. At least not now. Maybe I can learn, but I’m never going to be a fashionista with perfect hair and makeup for a short video clip. And right now, there isn’t a reputable technological forum for the graying and aging plain Janes. We’ll see. For now, I might be tabling it as future step 25.

I finished writing my book. Seventy-thousand words. Now I’m going to analyze it and put it on a spreadsheet of sorts before I send it out for queries. It’s a first draft. I imagine any editor would consider it a very rough draft. I thought long and hard about whether to attempt to publish it. Someone once said that every book you write is meant for one person in mind. So true. This book contains a piece of my soul. The part no one ever sees. Even editing it myself is difficult because the contents of the story hurt so much. That’s why a part of me doesn’t want to pursue publishing it. Who wants to scrape open wound? Repeatedly. With sandpaper.

But today, reserving the right to change my mind tomorrow, I’m thinking, I did all that work. Why not just keep it going? It’s like hitting the wall in a marathon and having to push through it.

Amidst all this mayhem, I did write another short story. Sort of getting my toes wet again. I’m sharing it for those who might enjoy my attempts as I stumble through this quagmire of author-hood.

This story, Ground Round, is being shared for those of you who were kind enough to encourage me to continue writing. Your words both surprised and meant the world to me. Thank you.