I did it again. Sigh. After being “on a roll” and really connecting to my writing steadily (and productively) for almost two solid weeks, I let three days go by where I didn’t really write. And this morning, I got up early to spend a couple of hours on my script and instead, find myself shut out of my own writing. I’m stuck in that uncomfortable place of trying to find my way back “in,” but all the entrances have been locked. I feel like I’ve been left standing outside the door of my own house, running from window to door, begging to be let in.
I don’t know why my “connection” to writing is so fragile. But these are the moments when I’m glad I’ve read other writers’ experiences. Otherwise, I’d be so hard on myself that I’d probably not try to write again for several years.
Maybe it’s not my connection that’s so fragile, but the newness of the ideas, or the reshaping of timeless ideas into new patterns, that’s fragile. All I know is that the more I learn about my own “writing process,” the more I
- marvel that I get any writing done at all
- take more care to nurture it (and myself)
- am grateful to God for this incredible, precious gift
One of the reasons I’ve been “away” from my writing is because I helped another sister at a parish exhibit all day on Sunday. (At parish exhibit, we visit a parish with a display of books, DVDs, and CDs that can help people to grow on their spiritual journey.) At the end of each Mass, I was invited to speak briefly to the people about our mission. To explain our mission of communicating Christ with the media, I mentioned that I was a writer.
It was the first time that I’ve publicly acknowledged to a crowd of strangers that I’m a writer. Unintentionally, I made a very powerful acknowledgment and affirmation that part of who I am, and part of my “mission” in life as a Daughter of St. Paul is to write. Saying it so publicly makes it reverberate inside of me.
Even as I’m typing these words, I feel a surge of joy and gratitude that God has blessed me with this gift. It’s such a treasure to deepen my calling in the world.
And, in writing this, my connection to my own writing seems to have solidified just a smidgen. The pain of being shut out of my own “house” is abundantly repaid when the door (or window) cracks open and I’m able to push it open and step inside.