Earlier this year, I completely blew up my blog. I tucked away all of my old posts into archives and back up drives, changed themes, and wrote serious notes to myself about how I wanted my “author page” to look. I proceeded to half-heartedly update my book list for the year — and that’s about it. For months, I’ve considered what to say in this post, this “first post” in a new place.
Instead of writing anything at all, I avert my eyes, do another load of laundry, answer emails, scroll through Instagram, call a friend – anything else that distracts me from the not-writing.
How do I christen a new page with a pandemic lingering, affecting many aspects of my job? What do I say when my writing takes a backseat to driving and picking up and driving and picking up my kids? Do I ignore those stressors? Write about them?
I ordered my planner for the year with the phrase “trust the process” emblazoned on the cover. I felt hopeful when I ordered it. That hope waxes and wanes depending on the day, the week, or how many cups of coffee course through my blood on a given day.
I want to trust the process.
For months, I’ve waited for things to calm down. I’ve done work in other areas, increasing water intake and steps per day and more journal entries than I’ve written in years. I pack index cards into every bag I have; they wait, blankly, for scribbled scenes or character notes. I traced the words on the front of my planner and waited for inspiration to overtake the low-level anxiety crowding out my creativity.
Only this week did I realize trusting a process requires a process to be in place. I’m pretty sure trusting “write nothing” will leave me with…a bunch of nothing.
Looking at my calendar affirms things will not be slowing down anytime soon. I need to stop waiting. I wrote a few notes about a timeline for a Christmas story. I drafted this post. Now, I’m taking a breath — and posting.
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