writing community

Ok, so if you read my last post, you would see I’m going for a series here. This is not planned because I’m way too unorganized for that, but I’ve been doing a lot of writing in the small spaces lately, and it’s on my mind.

And also: for those of you who are reading this and are NOT writers, this will relate to you as well because really? It has to do with what makes us creatively content.

I was going to say “what makes us happy” but I’ve been thinking a lot about that too – and I’m not sure writing makes me… happy. Don’t worry, this isn’t one of those “writing is so hard and it makes my brain feel like sludgy and sullen cottage cheese and who wants sullen cottage cheese in their life?” posts. It DOES actually do that, by the way. Like, really really troubled cottage cheese, I tell you. But that’s STILL not what I mean.

Bet you’re not gonna want to eat cottage cheese again for a while now, huh.

What I mean is… writing is hard. It’s a hard surface. You have to chip away at it. It leaves you gritty and tired and often, a bit banged up.

I have been working on a novel. The first one I have ever written. (This makes it sound like there might be more than one? Hmmm.) It’s been a delight, to write about something that’s not my life but also leans into my life (my protagonist is an alcoholic mom who is falling apart, go figure). But it’s HARD, ya’ll. Here’s some reasons why:

It’s new. I don’t know what I’m doing. I keep muttering things like “Just keep swimming.” I have taught character arcs to surly highschool teenagers for OVER TWENTY YEARS and I’m so sorry, kids. You whined about it. I get it now.
It’s waiting. I mean, there is so much waiting. I have to wait for word back on whether I should even TRY to find an agent. Waiting for that feels kind of like I am fully dilated but I have to wait a few months before I have the baby and wow that analogy just really went there.
It is sneaky. Meaning, if I don’t pay attention, this uncomfortable, hard, humbling thing could so very easily get filed away under “I just don’t have the time or heart or humility super-powers for this biznatch. I gotta feed and water kids and go to basketball games and remember to moisturize… I just don’t have time for this.”

I am still writing, ya’ll. But some days it’s hard. And if you’ve ever had something that made your heart feel at home, but it kept getting put at the bottom of the list because Momhood? I feel you. I really do.

Don’t give up.

Do you ever feel like you live a life squished down? A small life? A dusty one?

Ever feel like you don’t make a difference?

YEA ME NEITHER. I TOTALLY MAKE A DIFFERENCE. I AM AMAZING AND SO ARE YOU.

I’ve decided to stop questioning my contributions. I make a difference. And so do you. We get up each day, and we do the thing. And then we do some of it again, and again… We tweak some parts and mess up on others… And then we proceed to do it all over the next day. It is Sisyphus. It is numbing. It is monumental. And it is hard.

It is the bravest contribution ever: The Continued Doing of Life.

(Also: I kind of feel that as a fifty year old woman just existing in this world is Big Time Bravery).

I went on a run this morning and felt energized and exhausted, all at the same time. I felt invincible and Iron Womanish, and then headed to my coffee shop where I tripped over a non-existent something on the floor and totally wiped out. There, I started an article about my faith, and immediately felt imposter syndrome about my lack of faith.

It’s very likely I’ll eat something healthy and all green and crunchy for lunch, but then later I’ll scarf Reese’s because I know my husband bought some and HE HID THEM IN THE HOUSE. (Game on, husband).

Bravery is not one big long Hallelujah Chorus of awesome. At least, not in my case. I just can’t maintain it for that long. I can do bravery in short bursts and then breathe a lot after, inhaling and exhaling through the regular goofy and pain of Dana (also paired with fear, lack of confidence, comparison, sadness… all the icky stuff because human Dana).

Bravery works well on an instagram post. Or a tiktok. It’s cinematic and it’s sexy but it, like sex, it should REALLY NOT go on and on and ON. I mean… that would be… well you know what I mean.

So, take my word for it. We are brave every day. It might be tiny brave, but it counts. Tiny brave counts. It really does!

Finally, to really drive home the fickleness of bravery: Here is a pic of my new glasses. They were a brave choice. I love them, but the guy at Target said, “Cool glasses. You look like Jeffrey Dahmer.” So, you know. Truly, not really the vibe I was going for but #itiswhatitis

When Writing is Hard

Tiny Brave.