The last time I posted to my blog was last July 2020, when we were in the thick of the Covid-19 pandemic. The world shifted in an instant and we were all still coming to terms with it. Some of us had an easier time of it than others.
I had just signed with a new agent in the latter half of 2019 with expectations of being out on submission fairly soon. Of course, life and the pandemic had other plans. I spent pretty much all of 2020 hunkered down just like many of you, going out infrequently, avoiding crowds, dutifully wearing my mask, shopping online, binging on Netflix, and following the Presidential election and all the drama that entailed.
Some days were good.
Some days were terrible.
And some days were meh.
While I’m a wife, Mom and Grandma, the truth is, I largely define myself by my writing. I’ve been at this a long time. All my life, really. I’ve never wanted to be anything else, which is tough. It’s always been someday.
It’s been a bumpy road, with more ups and downs. Some successes. And some spectacular failures. Or maybe failure is too harsh. Maybe more like being at the right place at the wrong time.
But a New Year dawns and with it lots of hopes for new beginnings and dreams. That was my hope in 2020—until a strange virus took hold of our life.
February 2020 I was sick for a month. I mean, badly sick. Probably the worst since I almost died from a killer strep throat back in the 90’s. This time, I thought, could it be this weird new virus that was on the news? It didn’t seem possible. I hadn’t traveled anywhere, hadn’t come in contact with anyone who did. Everyone in my family got sick, and it was all different. For my young grandkids, it was a cold or tummy bug. My hubby, a bad head cold. The kids, a mild flu. Me, I had everything.
I strongly suspect it was Covid, but we’ll never know sure (an antibody test came up negative months later).
Through it all, I wrote. Even on days when I just wanted to hide under the covers.
Some days, I could barely muster the energy to write a sentence. But I did.
I worried that it was just crap. I was just treading along like an inchworm.
Summer came and went, but there was progress. I finished the book that my agent had signed me on.
But still no cigar.
More revising. And revising.
And waiting. A hell of a lot waiting.
I began another book. Actually, two.
Writing a book is like jumping out of an airplane without a parachute. You never know where you’re going to land. Or how. You might end up with two broken legs.
You just have to say a prayer, let go, and leave it up to the Universe.
A new year.
A new vaccine.
A new President.
And new hopes and dreams.
But sometimes you don’t end up in Kansas. You wind up at the end of a dark road in the middle of nowhere in a stalled car.
Letting go isn’t the worst thing in the world.
Hanging on for the sake of hanging on is.
When life hands you lemons, make lemon bars.