A Normal Life

When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, "I used everything you gave me".
Erma Bombeck

Sheri and I've been friends since our now grown sons were little boys playing baseball together. We've seen each other through all kinds of life changes. New houses, new towns, new jobs. Sick husbands, sick parents, dogs that got sick on the carpet. We've cried together, laughed together, and eaten way too many sticky desserts together.

Last week, Sheri was sitting on my couch. While she chewed a chocolate oatmeal cookie, I chewed my thumb. "I don't know how I'll make my deadline," I told her. "I'm behind and it's not going so well."

Sheri has heard this before. About a dozen times now. "I thought you were going to take a break from writing after your last book," she said. "What happened?"

"I dunno. I was." I exchanged my thumb for a cookie. "But then I got the idea for this story and it wouldn't let me go. I showed it to my agent. She shopped it around. A pretty decent offer came in. After all that how could I change my mind? But! After this manuscript's in, I'm taking a break. Really. This time I am. I have to. The stress is too much. It's too hard. I don't think I can keep doing this."

Sheri nodded. She's heard it before.

But here is the truth. So often, like now, I want to quit. Writing is really, really hard for me. It's scary. What if this time I can't pull it off? One would think the creative process would get easier the more you do it. Practice making perfect and all that. Not so for me. I find every book is more difficult to write than the last.

So as I round the bend on my December one deadline, I toy, yet again, with stopping all this. With trading the creative craziness of life as a working writer for a more normal, balanced existence. It sounds so appealing. No deadlines. No marketing. No fear that finally people are going to figure out that I don't write right.

But then I stop. And I wonder if I have the right to decide what I will and will not do. Is this really my life to use as I want? Over and over again I've said that it's not. I've told God to mold me, shape me, use me. And He has. He's flung open doors for me to use my talents. Allowed me to tell my stories, to see them in print, to hear from readers who are moved by my words.

Those things are huge. I know they are.

I don't mean to be so ungrateful, I tell Him. Really I don't.

It's just that sometimes it's really, really hard.