I quit writing on Tuesday morning.
And I don’t mean that I was in the middle of writing something and shut my computer for a short while.
I mean I QUIT WRITING.
I told God it had been an interesting six-year experiment, I’d found it exhilarating and awful and wonderful and quite, quite terrible. At any rate, I was done.
I was ready to go back to being a normal person, I explained to the Almighty. I was tired of obsessing over every word and how it would sound on the other side of a screen. I was tired of stats and editing and also of comparing myself to other writers who very much have it all together.
There may have been some loud, snotty tears involved in this exchange. I may have been thinking up lies to tell my children if they wandered up the stairs and asked why I was weeping into my morning coffee.
They slept on. I didn’t have to lie. Or, heaven forbid– tell them the truth.
I was tired of the pressure and the time constraints and constantly burning dinner because I was running back and forth to my computer between stirring pots. (Also, I simply burn dinner a lot– even when I’m not writing.)
So I quit writing and gave myself the day to adjust to my new life. I worked at my job, I picked up the kids, then– in the space where I would have been writing after school– I helped my father-in-law wire up the hot tub and scrubbed an old metal cabinet clean. I felt calm and wonderful, starting life back over.
As the day progressed I backed off a little. I told God that I was done unless he wanted to change my mind. But this was going to be a major act-of-the-Holy-Spirit kind of change, not the kind I was going to be able to dredge up with a good attitude.
By 8:30 I was sitting in the Fatty (which is what we call our settee, because settee is the most pretentious word ever. It’s obviously a Fatty.) reading a decorating book by the Nester. And she was telling me that my house doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful and I don’t have to put all that pressure on myself to try to make it perfect.
Just calm the heck down, she was telling me.
And the thought occurred to me that my writing didn’t have to be perfect either, and maybe all that pressure I felt was from myself and not the writing. Certainly not God.
And then I thought I’ve really got to get these thoughts down on the blog.
And I find myself typing away it my kitchen, wearing yoga pants and writing to my friends who aren’t perfect either.
Where do you find yourself tonight?