A few days ago, I threw myself an old-fashioned pity party. Just me and my faithful schnauzers.
And potato chips.
What began as a morning of productive writing spiraled into an afternoon filled with thoughts of what-the-heck-am-I-doing-with-my-life and what-makes-me-think-I-can-write-anything-worthwhile?
It was ugly.
And it all started because I let someone get under my skin.
A simple comment brought back a flood of insecurities and second guesses. Add to this a lingering sore throat and ear ache plus another 100+ degree day, and I became a crazed and disheartened shut-in wallowing on the couch.
Writing can be lonely and dark on the best of days. Staring at a blank sheet of paper, seeing self-doubt instead of words.
I’m only as good as the last thing I wrote. I don’t remember who said those words, but I understood it, especially on the day of my pity party.
I’m only as good as the last thing I wrote. I don’t remember who said those words, but I understood it, especially on the day of my pity party.
And then it began to rain.
In Dallas.
In August.
A steady soaking rain.
From the porch swing I watched fat drops splatter on my tired ferns. The trees took notice as a breeze moved through, dropping the temperature instantly. The entire neighborhood exhaled.
I grabbed my journal and wrote about the rain. Its smell and feel and the way the steam rose from the sidewalk. A few houses down, kids laughed and splashed, delighting in the rareness.
And I remembered why I write.
talya
Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.
Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow. -Margaret Atwood
“Nothing is wasted on the writer. –Crescent Dragonwagon
“Nothing is wasted on the writer. –Crescent Dragonwagon
The Sky is Crying, Stevie Ray Vaughan
