Recently my 92 year old mother moved in with us. Epic. Disaster. Despite our best attempts to live in harmony, she is looking to move into an apartment. She is not happy in our home.
I have mixed feelings about her leaving...if she actually does. On one hand, I feel like a failure. What could I have done differently? How could I have been more humble? Shown more love?
But on the flip side there will be no more verbal barbs that rip out little pieces of my soul. Smell that? It's the scent of SWEET FREEDOM! Yeah baby. Party at my house. Be there.
What does any of this have to do with writing?
Failure and freedom is the two-sided coin every writer keeps in their pocket. Each rejection is a stabbing defeat, no matter how many times you've been published. Failure is one of the squares on the writing game board that everyone lands on now and then, no matter how well you shake the dice.
If you turn that rejection coin over, though, you'll see an American eagle. Freedom to write what you want to write because, doggone it, you don't have any deadlines, and no expectations to wrangle the plot into a shape you never intended nor wanted to intend. It is an off the leash experience to write whatever you want to without any boundaries.
Of course, that doesn't pay the bills, but hey...that's a whole other blog post.
I hear voices. Loud. Incessant. And very real. Which basically gives me two options: choke back massive amounts of Prozac or write fiction. I chose the latter. Way cheaper. I've been writing since I discovered blank wall space and Crayolas. I seek to glorify God in all that I write...except for that graffiti phase I went through as a teenager. Oops. Did I say that out loud?