April was a behind-the-scenes kind of month. It was filled with solitude and soul searching. I spent time sitting on the couch staring out the window at the empty lot across the street from my house, eyes squinting for yellow blossoms of daffodils. I’ve wished for the sun to spread its fingers across the floorboards, for the rain and gloom to stop. I’ve waited for something new to emerge.
That’s how it’s felt inside me too—the waiting, the wishing.
Most of this year, I’ve been forcing it. I’ve sprinkled seeds and checked compulsively to see what was growing. Where it seemed like something should grow, nothing did. I pressed in and pushed harder, then realized I was exhausted by it all.
We can’t force things to grow. Nature doesn’t work that way, and neither do we.
We can plant seeds, but really we have no idea what’s going on below the surface, down in the darkness. We have no choice but to wait and see what comes up.
This month started with an idea. I have a lot of them—ideas, that is—but this was an extra-good one, one I could really make into something. But every time I got quiet and thought about this idea, all I heard was no. I felt it in my body too, that no.
What I heard instead was this: Rest.
Of course, I didn’t listen when I heard this. I heard no, then ran off to the next idea, the next plot of land where I could sprinkle more seeds.
These last years have been filled with a desperation to find my place. I’ve felt lost, like I don’t belong. I’ve taken other people’s advice. I’ve taken no advice. I’ve shut everything down and opened it back up again.
What I wrote in my journal again and again this month was this: I’m sick of trying to prove myself.
I’m sick of the dance-monkey-dance routine of social media.
I’m sick of being told how to be successful.
I’m sick of trying to measure up.
All along, I’ve been craving deeper work, deeper thought, something that’s satisfying on a soul level. But I’ve kept one foot in the shallow end of the pool. I’ve been hungry for instant feedback, somewhere to belong.
I’ve allowed the shoulds to speak louder than whispers of what I know is true.
I wrote this in my journal:
I want to have a better sense of my place in the world. I want to be closer to God and let go of some of the old ways of doing things and old thinking. I want to be a part of something. I’m just so sick of trying to prove myself all the time, to prove not only my worth and what I can do, but that I’m here at all.
I’ve said it again and again, that who we are is worth more than what we can do. That who we are matters and it matters simply because we’re here. There’s no need to hustle, no need to keep up.
But do I really believe that?
I’ve been struggling with that question all month. The answer? Yes. But I’ve gotten off track.
I need to remember to slow down and listen. I’ve forgotten to give myself space and freedom to play and explore and dive deep into what’s meaningful for me.
The idea I had, the one that’s a no, might be a no for now or it might be a no forever. We never know what might come of the seeds we plant.
But I know this: If I listen to my heart and trust my intuition, if I go deep inside and listen to the voice I hear there, whatever happens will be okay. It’ll be okay if I never publish a book or start a business or if I never post on Instagram again.
What matters is that I’m listening to my own life and following the path as it rises up beneath my feet. Each step is merely an act of faith.
And if flowers rise up, too, underfoot, all the better.
WORKING TOWARD A WRITING ROUTINE
I have been inching my way through my writing life, and I’m beginning to see that this isn’t a bad thing. When you read Stephen King’s On Writing and he says he writes for four hours a day, it can feel like, maybe, you should also aim to write four hours a day. But seriously, you might be lucky to write four hours a week or four hours a month.
That’s not shameful. That’s life.
Here’s the deal: Progress is progress. It doesn’t matter how many steps you take or how long your stride is—you will get there eventually.
This month, I realized I have more than eighty-five pages written for my memoir. Eighty-five! It’s exciting and terrifying. I’ve worked little by little, and it’s starting to add up to something. What exactly, I’m still not sure, but it’s something.
Words on the page are better than no words on the page. They can be edited, reshaped, rewritten, cut into little strips of confetti. Most importantly, they can be worked with.
I didn’t write as much as I’d hoped to in April. I wrote several essays I hoped to publish here on the blog that will likely never see the light of day. They were too raw, too personal. But what I wrote needed to come out. I had to put it on the page, and I’m glad I did.
Not everything we write needs to be read. It doesn’t all have to be shared. Sometimes, it’s enough to get it out and down on the page. It clears the way for something new. Sometimes, that’s all we can do.
WHAT I READ IN APRIL
I read five books this month:
- The Care and Feeding of Ravenously Hungry Girls by Anissa Gray: I read this quickly and enjoyed it. The characters struggled to connect and to endure a challenging situation, each one flawed in their own ways, but in the end, they found their way back to each other and to themselves.
- The Memoir Project by Marion Roach Smith: This was a reread and this book is an excellent kick in the pants for all writers, but certainly for those who aim to write about their own lives.
- The Magic Misfits by Neil Patrick Harris: I read this with my daughter and it was fun (especially after reading The Giver last month).
- The Next Right Thing by Emily P. Freeman: This book lives up to the hype and is like a hot bath and a deep breath for your soul. It’s not just for those struggling to make decisions but for those who want to live a wholehearted life.
- Maid: Hard Work, Low Pay, and a Mother’s Will to Survive by Stephanie Land: This story of determination and resilience made for an interesting read, but the writing left something to be desired (I hate to say that). In some parts, there wasn’t enough to hang onto to understand the timelines or characters. Still, it’s worth the read.
—
The question of my literary happiness hasn’t been on the forefront of my mind for a while. I wouldn’t use the word happy to describe my writing and reading life. The word I’d be more inclined to use is satisfied, but even that might be a stretch.
How do I feel about my writing and reading life? Okay.
I’m not dissatisfied or overjoyed, but somewhere in the comme ci comme ça of it all. It’s so-so. Okay. Lukewarm. Could be better, could be worse. And for now, that’s okay.
The middle is always a mess. It’s where you can get off track or lose your way. But if you can stay the course through the messy middle, you will certainly find your way.
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