“Daughter, why are you fighting Me on this?”
I was about to step out into the garage to weigh (don’t ask, there’s no reason why the scale is in the garage … it just never made it inside after the move), and I almost stumbled. It was a wake-up call.
Now if I could just figure out what it means.
I should probably mention that I’ve been struggling to decide whether to keep writing.
January through May of this year were great months for me, in terms of writing. The pandemic affected me not at all. In January I had already transitioned to working from home, part time. I was balancing the cut in funds, had picked up a great freelance job, and was writing like crazy. I joined a gym and was exercising; I lost weight. Even after the shutdown, I tried to keep that going here at the house.
Inspired by an idea that had been in the works for almost a year, I wrote an entire book in May, including having it edited by a pro. It would be a change for me, more sensual and no faith element, but I had a pseudonym picked and a marketing plan. I could do this, if it actually sold. I worked out the idea for a Christian suspense series, was working on some short stories for the mainstream market, and my editor on Murder in the Family asked for a sequel.
Then the bottom fell out.
The day job became overwhelming. Projects were getting behind and piling up. Our copyeditor quit, and I took on much of her role as well as mine.
I tried, but I couldn’t write. No words came. I froze. I prayed. I tried to listen. Nada. Silence settled in all around and in me. And that’s when the depression hit.
I recognized it, of course. Not immediately. They tend to be sneaky little suckers. But the first unexpected crying spell was a light bulb moment.
I’ve had bad years before. 2016 was one of the worst. I’d lost my mom in November 2014, then my daughter Rachel in February 2016. The depression that followed her death left me devastated. I couldn’t work or write; I did good to get out of bed. I played more than ten thousand games of solitaire (seriously). I went through all of my savings, including the money from my mother’s estate.
So I’m familiar with bad. And frozen. But this felt like an epic split between desire (wanting to expand my writing) and a familiar confinement (Christian fiction). Between wanting to finally let my voice grow into its natural setting … and the “shoulds” of the world I’ve made my career in. I’m 63—I’m tired of doing only the “shoulds!” I don’t want to get to the end of my life and be left with only the “what ifs.”
It felt a little like I was throwing a two-year-old’s temper tantrum.
It’s no wonder I dropped into a depression. One I’m still fighting.
Then the publisher for Burying Daisy Doe sent word that they’d
hired a publicist who I’ve known almost my entire career. She’s
brilliant and a friend. And I cried like I’d been shot. It was a light at the
end of the tunnel. Or at least a glimmer of daylight.
I still can’t write. I’m trying. I’m working on outlines and synopses instead. Short pieces to keep my brain going. But I still can’t write fiction; still struggling to focus on a novel. And I still want to quit. Even knowing what happens to me when I don’t write. (You think this depression is bad …)
Then came the message out of the blue, when I wasn’t even paying attention. And I’m trying to focus on those words: “Daughter, why are you fighting Me on this?”
Don’t have a clue what they mean, except that He’s still in control. So I’m trying to cling to the trust.
It is one amazing and bumpy ride. And it ain’t over yet.
