ugh. Just UGH!

Do you ever have so much to do that your life seems like it's running away from you on quick little feet, running much faster than you ever ran, even in that winning-the-50-yard-dash dream you have ever time you see the Olympics on television? Yeah, like that. But faster.

You have things that you MUST do, like breathe. You obviously make time for breathing, right? Then there are the things you really should do if you hope to keep functioning, like eating and sleeping. Sometimes you manage to both eat AND sleep on the very same day. Those are good days. Then there are those other things that must get done. Like laundry, so you don't show up at work in the same smelly clothes you wore the day before, and people turn up their noses as you walk by... And showering, again, to avoid those turned up noses. And buying groceries, so your children may also eat something besides YOUR Quaker rice snacks. And actually going to work, so you have money for said rice snacks. And paying bills, so you don't have to sit around the house in the dark because your power has been turned off, yet again, because you forgot to mail the damn check on time. And being a taxi-driver, so the rest of your community doesn't realize what a slug you are because you just don't want to drive 30 miles, yet again, to drop your children off at yet another function. You getting the picture yet?

There are things that you may want to do every day instead. Like if you are me, then what you really want to do every day is stay in your very confy jammies that you got from your very best friend, snuggle up in your very warm bed, and read. All day. Stopping only every hour or so to inhale some java that your children have left quietly at your bedside in the hopes of gaining your favor and allowing them to have yet another ice cream bar. Really though, as long as they are relatively quiet (their quiet is ALWAYS relative, let me assure you!), they could do just about anything if I am in a book. Yes, I get that into my books. Always have, and God willing, always will.

Or, again if you are like me, you may want to write. Well, that used to be me. I used to want to write all the time. Lately though, I've been so discouraged about my writing. My people have taken a vacation. I hear no voices lately. This troubles me on a very basic level. And frankly, it scares the crap out of me.

I have two stories going right now. One is very hard for me, because it deals with a woman and her relationship with her mom. It's hard to write, but when I started it, I knew I had to get it out of me. This woman was talking to me all of the time. I mean, she used to SCREAM at me at the most inopportune times, like during church, or during sex. And no, there is no correlation for me between the two, I'm just illustrating the times when her voice called my name, and she insisted that I pay attention.

My other story is much funner, at least on the surface. It's about four women and their relationships with the men in their lives, and with each other. This one is lighter in some ways, but also deals with some heavy stuff. I started this one while working on the first one, really as a way to distance myself from the first story, because the first one was really putting me through the wringer.

But now? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Big fat goose egg on the flow. I mean, I sit at my desk. I have my computer turned on. Some days, I even open up one, or both, stories. I have every intention of writing. I want to write. But I just can't. I have outlines. I know where these stories are going. I know how they will end. I've seen the endings of both in my head. I've heard conversations from all of my peoples. But the fun is just not there for me, because ... well ... because of all of that other stuff. You know, the stuff I was talking about in the first few paragraphs? All of that basic, every day, LIFE stuff seems to have stolen my joy for writing. Life is my joy stealer. Shane would laugh at my choice of words, but he'd know what I mean.

Despair over this had taken a pretty big hold on me. I was fairly certain that I would just have to pack it in, throw in that towel, and admit defeat. Tell everyone that I'm a big fake. I can't write. I can't do it. I'm not good enough. I'm not dedicated enough. I am a fraud.

And that made me sad. Not just a little blue, like you get when the ending comes to Casablanca, and you realize that no, not even this time, will Ingrid Bergman stay behind with Humphrey Bogart. I'm talking full blown dog-just-died-the-day-after-i-lost-my-job-and-the-car-got-repossessed-and-now-i-must-live-in-a-dumpster distraught. See, I love to write. But since big bad L I F E is a joy-joy-joy stealer, what could I do?

Well, I changed my mind. I'm going to sit my butt in my chair, and I'm just going to write. Because I can. And frankly, once again, I've been inspired by... (ok, you know what's coming already, don't you?)... yeah, Joshilyn Jackson. I read her blog, Faster Than Kudzu, today. Ok, who am I kidding, I check it about 10 times a day just to see if she's posted, because she's my idol, and I want to grow up and BE her, right? You all know this already, it's nothing new. I want to write...not like her, exactly, but like her. If that makes sense. You, over there in the corner, stop shaking your head. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. I want to have my stories flow out of me, onto the paper, and from the paper, into the hearts of women. I want to be able to touch people. No, not like that, now stop it already. You know what I mean. I want to be sunlight and rainbows and bacon cheeseburgers, and all things right and pretty in the universe. But on paper. So please, go on over to Joshilyn's blog, right here, and read about the time she's had with her latest masterpiece. It's been rough for her, to say the least. And she just walked away from it, for a season. But she's back, OH LORDY is she back. And her post made me cry. Not those fake crocodile tears that lead to ice cream around my house. But I sat here at my desk and weeped buckets, or at least rivers of mascara. Because I know what she feels like, though not on as grand a scale, I'm sure. And she's so eloquent. Plus, she's pretty. But it made me see that even people like HER go through the rough stuff. That's part of writing. Yet even if I walk away from it, the stories will still be there in my soul. They will still beg to get out.

And you know what? When I stopped trying to make them come, I heard this whisper. It was one of my girls. She was giggling a little, in that way your best girlfriend does when you finally realize something that she's known for ages. And she said, ever so quietly, "I'm glad you finally get it, NOW WOULD YOU PLEASE LET ME FINISH MY STORY?!"

Yes, ma'am.