I’ve been here before. It’s my expectations plummeting to meet reality. It’s me flailing as I fall, trying to grab onto anything to stop life from hitting so hard. If I do manage to grab something, it’s me holding on for dear life, trying to climb back up to my expectations.
For Christmas, I received a book, The Storied Life, by Jared C. Wilson. He says, “’I don’t know what I think about a thing until I write about it.’ That is the sort of thing only a writer would say. Writers cannot conceive of their place in this world apart from processing it through the written word.”
Yet, it’s the end of January, and I haven’t posted anything since November. I’m beginning to question whether this is all a mistake. If I want to be a writer, shouldn’t I be writing more regularly? Writer’s write, that’s about all there is to it. So, what gives?
Last week, I had great plans, great expectations to prove myself as a writer. While my husband was going on a work trip and my children were in school, I planned to spend every hour of precious solitude writing! A writer’s retreat, just for me, I thought. I’ll at least write a blog post, maybe even gain some traction on a book!
But that’s not what happened. The first day of my retreat, the silence was so golden, I ended up falling asleep. Twice! Evidently, motherhood had taken its toll on my body and I needed some rest. Then, later that day, the dog finally met her fate, crossing in front of a motorbike while she chased it. She knocked her leg out of socket. She was able to be seen immediately, just before closing time at our local vet’s office.
The next day of my writer’s retreat was spent at another vet’s office an hour away, getting x-rays. I took my computer and books, thinking they would send me on my merry way while they kept the dog for surgery. They did not. Instead, the surgical vet was on vacation; I would have to go to a sister office an hour away in the other direction. There, I dropped the dog off to get her leg back in its socket (no scalpel required, only anesthesia). Then I came home. Too frazzled from a poor night of sleep and stressful, ever-changing plans, I could not write. Instead, I took a short nap (this time on purpose). After, I mostly did the next thing that needed to be done before the kids came home from school; laundry or dishes, something like that.
Then, it was time to return to the third vet’s office to retrieve the dog. She was groggy from her medication, so I canceled my plans for the night and stayed home with her. Still, I did not write. The kids were home, so it was time to pay attention to their needs and keep the house running. We talked to my husband for a little bit, walked the dog around outside and called it a night.
The third day of my writer’s retreat: finally, I should be able to write. I’ll post a blog by tonight and be successful by tomorrow. Still, no writing occurred. I felt stressed and unsettled. Despite every effort to care for our house, it still kept needing care. Despite trying to bandage the dog, it all kept coming undone. Despite wanting so badly to write, I simply didn’t have the strength to stay awake. When I slept, I seemed to get behind on whatever needed done. Thus, the cycle continued. Despite working diligently and patiently enduring the change of plans, I felt like a failure. So again, I spent the day catching up on housework, talking to my sister, trying to process the stress of the previous two days. I walked around the pond, tried to fuel my soul, which felt empty and hangry. Then, I was off to be a mom again and take our oldest to the optometrist.
While we were gone, the dog chewed off her bandage. Just as the vision problem was becoming resolved, a new problem was arising. In light of the dog’s injury, it was important that I do what I could immediately. To the vet’s office after hours I went for a cone of shame, to keep her from chewing. Then, it was to the dollar store for more bandage. My few years as a lifeguard in high school and my first aid training really propped me up to think I could do just as good a job as a trained and highly experienced veterinary surgeon. My expectations plummeted to a proper kersplat, as whatever I tried came undone. I spent over two hours in various attempts to bandage her leg, as the vet had. I even cut up a t-shirt to make a hardness and sling. Whatever I made was successful for a short time, only to shift and leave her leg dangling, putting it at risk of coming out of socket again.
Ask me how much I like to fail and I’ll tell you another story. Spoiler alert, I don’t like to be bad at things, and this week was proving to be a complete failure in my mind. How on earth am I supposed to make it as a successful writer if I can’t ever sit down to write? What was wrong with my expectations? They were good ones, and I was giving every effort. I had nothing left to give, not to the dog, not to my children (who were really an immense help and very understanding at my frustration), least of all my writing!
The final day of my writer’s retreat was only a small window of time between my regular Friday morning commitments to when Eric would return from his trip. In those few hours I ran a couple of errands in town, ate lunch and tried bandaging the dog again. It came undone again. Just as I sat down on the couch to breathe a large sigh of surrender, to the dog and to ever becoming a writer, Eric walked through the door. After sweet kisses and a brief explanation of failed lifeguard skills, he asked if I wanted a nap. So together, we napped. Later, our son came home from school. Soon, the three of us went to the girls’ volleyball game. Then, we ordered pizza. Together again, we ate and enjoyed a show. Finally, we went to bed.
But I couldn’t sleep. By 12:30 I gave up and decided to go downstairs. I took out my journal and began to write. Easily, joyfully, I wrote three pages, pen to paper, thinking about how I’ve changed over the years when I can’t sleep to save my life. When, hard as I try, I can’t change my circumstances. But when I give up on sleep and lean into what I can do while everyone else sleeps, I have found some enjoyable ways to spend my time (another topic for another time). This time, it was writing. When I was done, I laid my head down and fell asleep.
Successful expectations or failed expectations, evidently, I’m a writer.
Wilson, J. C. (2024), The Storied Life, Christian Writing as Art and Worship, Zondervan.
12 Stones Farmhouse 