the book

It’s not everyone who has the luxury to write a first book. I’ve been given that luxury. But it doesn’t come free. And it isn’t easy. Not at all.

My husband, my girls are supportive – but cost is their impatience and occasionally wavering support, which combined with my own insecurities (Who am I to think I can write a book?)…a very, delicate balance: When will you be done? (Why didn’t I write today?); Are you doing any work for pay this week? (Will I lose all my clients over this ludicrous idea?) Are you going to get lonely again like you used to when you first started working from home? (Am I going to be able to stand the hours of solitude?) And again, when are you going to get that book done? (Crap, I guess I better make a deadline).

And some days, writing feels like that dream where you can fly — just a little leap and you’re airborne. You karoom! all over the blank Word doc pages and you know you were meant to do this. It is beautiful. It will all work out the way it’s supposed to.

Other days, though, it’s a heavy chore – worse than scrubbing that dirty toilet you’ve been neglecting for this, worse than pushing a Sisyphean boulder up a hill only to have it roll back down over you and crash into the house of cards that is your confidence and belief in your project, yourself. What…the…hell…am…I…doing???

But you are called back, by something, irresistibly. It is who you are on a cellular level. So you stop looking at websites that tell you your “genre” isn’t being published anymore, that no one is publishing anything anymore — and you know that you will make it happen. This book will be done.

Thy will be done.