pj Holliday

I haven’t been writing.

The energy in me is taken up by my sons. Zeke is 20 months and Ezra is due April 6th. To say I have been exhausted would be an understatement, let alone mentally blocked from creative thought by pregnancy brain-which is totally not a myth. I have sat in front of a computer before and found my subject matter boring and thought others might agree, so nothing was published or completed in fear. I wrote a really successful blog last year and there is a fear of not being able to recreate that momentum, like a rock star’s follow up album after the first sent him to the radio. The pressure to write something viable is hard to resist.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon in deep discouragement. Hope was far from even my peripheral vision. I pursued an MFA and completed it one year ago. I suppose I believed it would bring a bit more success as a writer than I have seen yet. As discouragement drifted into my apartment, I received another rejection letter from a publisher, a thing I’ve become most accustomed to, but this one stung. I think it was the timing of the rejection more than anything. Being 8 months pregnant, I am fighting for energy and momentum to enjoy the endless hours I have to wait on my second baby. You would think I’d utilize my time by writing, but I’ve experienced the opposite lately. I’ve experienced resistance and felt as though my writing pursuits were more or less pointless and this has immobilized me. It makes my journal look sickening as I think about opening it to finish the remaining pages. This feels horrible as I identity as a writer and hope to make a living for my family through some aspect of writing one day.

There is always resistance when you choose to do what you feel purposed to. To name it, resistance is a lack of confidence, direction, effectiveness. These things overwhelm a writer’s life and there is always internal struggle when I want to give myself to it fully. Am I good enough? Is there a point? It felt hard to start the day optimistic. I spent time in prayer with my mom, because moments when I feel I am drowning requires someone else to lift my arms as Aaron did Moses (Exodus 17:12-14). Through tears of acceptance, I realigned my thoughts and cast off the negative internal dialogue to make myself sit at Starbucks and write this post, for however long my pelvic floor would allow me to sit on their wooden chairs.

I’ve been a writer since my Grandmother gave me my first journal at 5. I have always felt I needed writing more than it needed me. I am remembering this point now as I type. The relief of being honest revitalizes and success lies within that truth. In light of my struggle to write yesterday, or in recent months, I come back to the root of my passion to write and embrace that release, to feel good again because I let discouragement dissipate along the edges of the keys.