Last weekend I celebrated being alive for seven decades! I had a wonderful time loving my family, relishing every moment. This morning I discovered Meghan Trainor’s song It’s Good to be Alive that says it so well. But it was different ten years ago. I was depressed like I’d never been before. I couldn’t stop crying and I felt old, used up, creatively bereft.
Everyone else seemed to be doing better, especially when it came to writing and publishing. They were finding representation, announcing new book deals, starting new projects, making their dreams come true. And I was going nowhere with a book I knew had promise, but couldn’t find a home for. I’d put that book away, tried to forget about it, moved on. Multiple times. In the meantime, I was working full time, trying to pay off debts, and was so envious of those who didn’t have to hustle every moment for extra writing jobs to help make ends meet. They could write what they wanted, when they wanted! Or so I thought in my pity pot.
When I went to writers’ events, I felt like I didn’t fit. I was no longer a newbie because I’d published several work-for-hire books. But I didn’t feel like a success either because nothing I’d published had been born in my soul and loved into a trade existence by others who had faith in it. If there was ever a time I felt like an island, it was then. And a desert island at that.
But the need to create wouldn’t let me go. And neither did that crazy Hotdog book. Whenever I felt hopeless about it, a dachshund or a hot dog would appear randomly or from friends—on a card, a napkin, a pincushion, a box of hot dog printed bandages, a silly hot dog hat. Even a dachshund blue-tooth speaker. I might have lost steam but my Hotdog dream had not. Gradually, those surprises helped me feel better, and still do (see below). I also went to counseling again, shared the pain with a better-trained but equally imperfect stranger. I made a conscious effort to recognize moments of joy and to relish the world around me. And I began writing about them in this Glasshalfull blog.
Funny thing is that now, though I’m ten years older, I don’t feel it. Mentally and emotionally, at least. I think it’s because I’ve been through the wringer more than once and learned that moments must be treasured because they so quickly become memories.
Not much has changed on the publishing front. Folks are still announcing new books right and left and I’m still waiting to see good old Hotdog out the door. At least now I know for sure it’s going to happen. The envy has been replaced by frustration that publishing mountains don’t move as fast as I want them to. But now that I’m retired, I have all the time I want to be write and creative, between physical therapy or doctor’s appointments, that is. And I’ll soon be writing something new!
Have a good week.
Hugs,
Dale
Love you and love what you do!
Be it Great White Whale,
Dachshound, Hermit Crab and quiet Shell
Our inkwells stay half full.
I am so grateful for your friendship, Dale. And, as always, I love your post.