Writing for a living can sometimes strip away the magic and leave bare the bones of your passion. Structure can be built without a drop of care instilled. Skills and talent can often be drawn upon without invoking enthusiasm.
When you’re in the middle of a project you love, it doesn’t matter how much you sweat and bleed. You go without sleep, ignore showers and housework, mumble to yourself while downing too much coffee, and stare at the words that you hope you can construct into a living, breathing story. It can be frustrating and challenging and wonderful. Even if you’re struggling with the art, there is something satisfying about the fight. Something magical. And worthwhile.
I miss that kind of writing.
I write copy during the day. It can be challenging. It can also be creative. But it doesn’t inspire the kind of rabid devotion I’ve experienced when I write novels. It also pays the bills and gives my kid health insurance, so that’s the trade-off, the sacrifice. I still write novels, but compressing writing time into 15 minutes here, two hours there, and when on deadline, I forfeit sleep to finish the project.
My life is changing this week. I am combining my life, forever and ever, with that of my Viking. We are weaving together a new family. We are creating new patterns, new expectations, new goals, and new responsibilities. I am a mommy times two again. I have a commitment to co-maintaining the household and all that entails.
Time to write books, to work within the worlds that beat in my heart, whisper in my mind, has gotten ever more precious.
I’m trying to figure out how to make it all work, but I find myself grieving for the words. For the time I need to create, explore, build … to find the passion, the excitement again.
In time, I imagine I’ll find that magical place again.
Until then … I move forward. Carry on. And dream.