A Season of Growing Pains

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I am (hopefully) coming out of a difficult season, a season in which I've taken emotional punches to the gut... given them back... and been brought to my knees, sorrowed over the resulting losses and filled with regret and guilt over... all of it. I've learned a lot about myself in this season--most of it unpleasant. But I'm finally feeling stronger. Me-er, if that makes any sense. Sadness still lingers, but repentence was true, and although it took a while to get here, that sadness is softer now and I can accept the new peace within the losses. Most days.

Who would have thought I would still be experiencing 'growing pains' at 42?

I hope I've learned things through this season that will make me a better whole down the road, someone who can confidently, kindly, and firmly say "NO" when it is called for and "YES" when it works within the limits of my sanity. I don't want to be that person again; the one who waits too long to be clear, continuously disappoints people because I don't have the heart to be firm in stating my limits when I should. I don't want to put myself in a position again where I've allowed the frustration and irritation of many demands from many various sources become stacked so tightly, layer upon layer, that, when the proverbial tiny strand of straw--or bale, depending on the event--settles on the camel's back, the camel explodes on whoever put it there before collapsing into a heap of tears.

I want to be better at managing my life, my time, my relationships, my heart. And I still have miles to go... many more heart inches to grow.

But something else I've learned over this time is that I am not alone. Many other authors struggle with these same issues--some more successfully than others. But the truth of the matter is that, too often, we authors--especially those of us who are women--and even moreso those of us who are women AND, by nature, introverts--allow guilt to be draped over our shoulders by friends, extended family, our communities--and especially ourselves-- when we invoke the word "No" when asked to "do this"/"be like this"/"show up here and..." So, we don't allow that little word to cross our lips. We try to be all things to all people ... at great expense to our sanity, our stories, our kids and spouses, our calling . . . until we realize, in one ginormous explosion of emotional wreckage, that we just can't do it anymore. That we have to be selective about to whom/to what/and how we distribute our energies. And then we retreat. Sometimes too far.

Yes, we need to find a balance to avoid becoming utter hermits, we still NEED to go out in the world, interact with others, and breathe the wild air, as Ralph Waldo Emerson said; otherwise, how can we go back into our caves and write about it with authority? 

Saying "no" or stating "I can't today/this week/this month/this quarter/ever" now and again is part and parcel of this often quite solitary calling we've embarked upon. Without being what non-publishing people might perceive as "selfish" with our time and energy, we cannot do what we have to do to invest what we need to invest of ourselves in the worlds of words we create. --- 

While sipping my coffee this morning, I came across this article by Jeanine Henning on the Indie Author News blog and thought I would share a quote:  

"I think, we authors need to be more selfish sometimes. Yes. I said it. We need to be more selfish with our time and space. Because we are the storytellers that make people buy Kindles, download books, go into book shops and have something to keep them entertained with new worlds and characters." -- Jeanine Henning -- Here's the link to the full article, which is aimed at indie publishing authors, but applicable, I think, to us all: http://www.indieauthornews.com/2013/07/the-other-4-tips-for-authors-tips-many-may-practice-but-wont-admit-to-doing.html

That seems like a very unfeeling thing to say, very mercenary, perhaps even a bit . . . arrogant. But there is more than a bit of truth at its core. Every human being has only so much of themselves to give, and it varies from person to person. An author of fiction is called to bleed a little of her life-force into each phrase she crafts . . . in the hope that being so bled will result in a page with a pulse. That is what makes a story resonate as true, even though it is fiction. It is draining. And beautiful. 

And misunderstood by so many.

Because I have somewhat of an obsessive personality (the people who know the real me are choking with laughter over that word 'somewhat' about now), I struggle with balancing my life. When emotional upheaval takes center stage--especially when I know I have not reacted as I should have within it--my focus shifts, pinholing on that upheaval, thus putting everything else--including my writing; perhaps ESPECIALLY my writing--at risk. This is problematic when you have contracted with editors for specific dates on which a manuscript is to be completed and ready for edit. When an author's mind is obsessively trapped in one moment or event, unable to move successfully beyond the resulting regret, sadness, anger, or whatever else resulted from it, anxiety becomes a near-constant companion. Creativity suffers, hope for its return shrivels, characters are silent, and each new scene that hits the ever-expanding wordcount becomes little more than a series of contrived efforts to make *something* happen to move the story forward, but yet . . . they fail to do so in a way that honors the characters' journey.

That was my season. 

Outwardly, I blamed the book. "This book is killing me!" I lamented. But inwardly, I knew the truth. It wasn't the book--okay, it was partly the book, but that's another blog post!--but my meaninglessly verbose creative drought (165,000 word draft with stakes yet unclear anyone?) was due more to the festering wound inside my heart than the story I was trying to bring to life on the page.

Within the benevolent grace of God, a good friend (also an author) advised me to find a way to figuratively or even physically let it go. On her advice, I did. In the window of my soul, I pictured my hands, filled with the delicate petals of a pink rose--the fragile beauty of what was lost. I lifted my hands to God and allowed a gentle breeze to take those petals from my hands and into his keeping.

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He took them. They are His.

As am I. Still.


It was a beautiful, freeing image... and one I shall cling to and return to when new hurts invade new seasons of my life with growing pains... as surely they will. As long as I live, I'll have many miles to go, many heart-inches to grow.

Have you gone through a difficult season of 'growing pains' lately as an author--or as a human being--or both?

You are not alone.