I was complaining to Jerimiah the other day about my lack of writing. Not on this here blog. I write everyday here, but as you can see it’s not important stuff. It’s not my “real” writing. It’s my musings, mainly for posterity, mainly because I promised myself on January 1st of this year that I would strive to write a blog post every single day for a year just to prove to myself that I could do it. And so far I have, even on days when I feel like shit and don’t want to get out of bed, or see my own family, I still manage to write a few paragraphs on here. It’s healing in some way, just haven’t had the time to consider how or why or any other W there might be, because truly my brain is a messy fog and I can’t keep it together right now.

Anyway, I was complaining to Jerimiah the other day that I am not writing anything substantial, and that is scaring me because I start an MFA program in the fall at Mississippi University for Women (Go Owls!) and I really wanted to have some stuff, some new stuff, going into the program that I was working on and as it sits I got nothing. Nada. Zero new “things.” I was feeling pretty shitty about it. I was telling myself all sorts of lies, like I bet I’m the only writer this is happening to. I bet “real” writers have their shit together and are getting so much done. I suck. Yada, yada, yada. Then Glennon Doyle, one of my favorites, shared this:

Okay, what? I mean, I know she is busy with a virtual book tour for “Untamed” which I have yet to read so don’t spoil it for me, but it’s on my list (so many books on my list) and what not, but it made me feel immediately better to know that I am not alone. That this thing we are living through is doing things to creative people. Empathetic people. Writers. Artists. Musicians. We are all struggling right now, and it is making the art sort of struggle too.

I also know there are people who are writing, and making, and creating, and my hat is off to them. I’m amazed at the people still out there doing it, but I can’t feel bad for being immobilized anymore. I just can’t.

Last week I got another very nice rejection letter. This one came with a note that my work had made it to the final round with the editors, and they loved it, but couldn’t make it fit in with the issue they were working on. Then the editor gave me some great feedback on how to help it a bit, asked to continue to send them more pieces for consideration, and said she knew this work would be picked up by a lit mag soon. I love those kind of rejection letters. It was for a submission I made at least six months ago, so not new work, but it did light a fire under me to start editing. So I’ve been editing for a week now, hoping this is my way back into writing. Small steps, you know?

Then I saw this from Glennon and I was like THANK YOU! It was seriously the permission I needed to be okay with what is happening, or not happening, in my case. It reminded me that I am the kind of person who is always “writing.” Meaning, I think about things all the time, I slosh my way through these big things, and eventually, eventually they become something. I’ve been so scared about what writing will look like for all of us on the other side of this, that I was consumed and unable to actually do the writing, but that doesn’t mean I’m not working still. Thinking still. Taking this all in. And who knows, maybe one day it will all become something. Until then I’m gonna try to give myself some grace. You should give yourself some too. We all need a little grace these days. It’s time to accept that and do it.

Stay safe and sane, y’all.

M.