Last year right around my bday I took a second job. I had just turned 40 and honestly it felt like a defeat. It meant I still wasn’t published, wasn’t any closer to achieving my dreams despite the thousands of words, hundreds of hours, and dogged pursuit of becoming a better writer.
It’s a nice place to work, friendly people, a non-crowded space, and neat interesting things to see. But with the extra hours I worried; how could I be faithful to my writing without dropping the ball with the youth ministry or at home as a mom?
I tried writing for an hour in the evenings. But the stuff coming off my pen at that time was garbage. I have a completely manageable non-life threatening condition but it does leave me very tired after dinner. Evening writing sessions weren’t going to work.
As I near the last third of my sixth manuscript and send out queries for the fifth, I am completely at a loss. How did I write all this? Sure, I was more careful about scheduling, one day a week I write for an hour before work, the house isn’t as clean as I’d like, and I got a book coach to help with the query stuff, but I feel like my writing time has been multiplied far beyond those things.
This miracle of story telling was still able to grow. Words flowed; a princess was brave, a prince clever, a lady in waiting fierce. A non-published writer was nourished in her spirit. And even though I still yearn for a book contract, I’m thankful and so so happy to have a pen in my hand and a story in my heart.