I was discussing with a friend the fact that I’m, sort of, between projects. I say ‘sort of’ because the duties toward the primary aspects of my life: children, enduring relationships, household, are never finished exactly. Instead they morph. I’m learning, albeit slowly, to morph with them. I say ‘between’ because my book is published, and that was a tremendous endeavor requiring substantive commitment for the past 7 years.
There is a hole to fill. However, with 4 children, a serious relationship, and homes to care for, I don’t sit idle. If any one of these fronts should burst into activity, for example – my first born son getting married, and my daughter returning from overseas – life can get busy, quickly.
Yet, I long for an endeavor that pulls on my time and creativity.
My friend says: “Write another book, you’re a writer and writers write.”
He is, of course, correct. But do I have a story compelling enough to fill another book? I am proud of writing and publishing a memoir, even though it did not get the reception I dreamed of, even though I have stopped doing serious promotion.
I heard the book (and eventual movie) Help got rejected sixty times before someone picked it up. And The Beatles demo tape was rejected unmercifully, at first even by George Martin, who luckily thought better of it and ultimately signed and mentored the group.
My skin is too thin for rejection of this magnitude.
I have, however, gotten wonderful reviews on Amazon, people call and tell me the book changed their lives and the way they view loss, strangers contact my Facebook author page (https://www.facebook.com/TheMoonToPlayWith/) to tell me they wish they’d read this book before loved ones died; they may have handled the experience better, or differently, Hospice Times has asked me to write for their online magazine, a friend who continues to endure old losses, has pleaded with me to instruct a master class on death, dying and presence, and my children have learned more about me and feel great pride in my authorship.
The road to success never did come easy, or was it, the course of true love never did run smooth? Both ring true.
Which still leaves me open to possibility, not a bad thing, and inquiry, sprinkled with uncertainty, held within the base of living.
I like things neat, placed on a closet shelf where they sit still. But that would beg the question – What’s the point? And even if there were a point, life would not cooperate because it’s messy, besides which, it would be exceedingly boring. Life pushes and stretches us beyond what is comfortable, sometimes beyond what we think we can stand, perhaps with the intention of showing us our capabilities, perhaps with the intention of molding us into our best selves.