Within 24 hours we found out that my husband was getting laid off, and that one of our dogs was diagnosed with heart disease. Needless to say, the last 48 hours of last week’s work week were very difficult.
From nearly the moment I learned about my husband’s job, I felt complete peace about it. Truth be told, it is something we wanted for a long time but the need to pay bills and fear kept him there. Yet in that moment I felt peace. I still feel peace. Yes, I am anxious about paying our bills, but I am doing my best to trust that we will be provided for. We have been in the past.
That night after learning about his job, I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep. It hit me with great force. JOY. These last six months have been great. I’ve been doing well emotionally, I’ve felt joy like I haven’t in a long time.
I don’t know what these next six months of 2014 hold. But as I laid there in bed, my mouth agape, I understood. Or at least I began to. I wove my way through each of my last three words and how they were interconnected with this year’s. I wove my way around and through how they were each connected to the same set of circumstances in our lives, building up to this climatic moment.
I fought so hard against accepting JOY as part of my word for this year. I knew that this would either be a REALLY hard year, a great year, or both. And right now I sit on the border of joy challenged. Six months of easy joy, facing six months of hard joy.
This year has been building up to it. All I can say, is I hope I’m strong enough.
These words we choose never fail to let us down or challenge us to our core.
I’m 25 thousand words into my novel. That’s about 25 thousand more than I ever believed I’d write. Seriously. The dreams I had in high school of writing the next great American novel died a long, long time ago.
Yet when the dreams for this book started, I couldn’t forget them. They haunted me. They kept me up at night. The scenes playing out in my head like a movie, and my brain writing further scenes. Telling the story.
Art, any art is a birthing process. You are giving up a little piece of yourself. Painting it on canvas. Writing in on paper. Carving it in stone.
My toughest challenge throughout the year that I’ve been working on my book has been trudging through the mud. Sometimes the words and the scenes flow like liquid caramel. Other times…. other times it will be weeks (or months) between writing.
Shawn constantly asks me if I know where I want to end up. If I know where the story is going. I do. In fact my epilogue has been written for a long time. But getting from A to Z means fleshing out what takes place in those in between parts. Even in the in between parts of the in between parts that I know I want to write.
The time and the mud trudging has been good for me, even if incredibly annoying (because what author wants to not have words ready on the tip of her tongue). I’ve learned a lot about myself in the process. I find myself worthy of the aggravation because I am pouring myself into it, and allowing the painfulness of birth.
Prudence is a 30-something writer who lives in Arizona with her husband Shawn and their chihuahuas Lengua and Zeus. She writes her life, her experiences and her crawl back to hope. Eventually, she hopes to visit India – a place that’s captured her heart without ever stepping foot on the soil.