If anything, I'm consistent about being inconsistent.
My plan, and when I say MY plan I really mean Heavenly Father's plan for me, that I fight tooth and nail, become resigned, and then fall off the band wagon again and again. My plan has been to write a book, a memoir, about my journey, my grief, my healing, my progress.
I've been working on my book for, what? ten years or so now. I've made little progress but have plenty of excuses.
A week before Christmas I was down in the valley with my daughter for doctors appointments. While there we stopped at a used book store. I got a bug, an intense drive and bought a basket full of books about writing, how to be a writer, even a memoir that would be a good example to learn how to write memoir. I've had this bug jump up and bite me a few times over the past ten years, but never this intense. I was excited! I felt like something had shifted, within me, and without. I don't know what that shift was, but I knew that I could do it.
Right before Christmas I found myself doing some self-reflection. I hated my job. I dreaded going to work. I wanted to be a dispatcher but the agency I was working for was making it difficult. I went from being a stay-at-home mom during the pandemic, to working as a courtroom clerk, to working from home for the VA, to training as an emergency dispatcher. Hating my job was not part of my plan. I quit the VA because it made me so angry. I quit the court because I wasn't willing to work for someone who was willing to throw good employees away for one who cried racism, or someone who was more interested in being a friend than a supervisor. I quit jobs for lesser things than hating the job, so what was holding me back now? As things got progressively worse I realized that my fear was keeping me there. I was afraid of my finances, disappointing my husband, being a bad example to my children, not achieving my goal of becoming a dispatcher, not being able to make as much money at another job.
During my self-reflection I remembered that I had prayed about this job, as I had the previous jobs. I did not have a good feeling about it, or any of them, but I rationalized that I needed it and it would be good for my family. I realized that while I had prayed about each job, even the need to go back to work in the first place, that I hadn't followed the answer, because it wasn't the answer I wanted. I wanted the adventure. I wanted the new experiences and the chance to learn something new. I didn't want to be a boring stay-at-home mom who was pissed every evening when my husband got home from work. It wasn't that I was sick of my kids, but I was sick of myself, of who I'd become. I needed a change. Instead of making that change within myself I made a change in my circumstance, a change that would not end up making a real difference.
I realized that I needed to have faith to follow the direction Heavenly Father was giving me.
Why couldn't I have that much faith? Why couldn't I just do it already?
The excuses were there, as they always are. They all came down to fear.
If I can't put my faith above my fear than what is the point of it all? All of these lessons I've learned would be for nothing. All of the heartache I've been through would be for nothing. All of the growth I've experienced would be for nothing. Every lesson I've ever taught my children would be for nothing.
So I made a plan. Something that involved me quitting, finishing my degree, writing my book, getting my house in order.
And then I got sick. My brain fog was so intense that I couldn't hold a single thought in my head. All of my plans and intentions were gone. I couldn't find them. I couldn't remember them. They were just gone. Once I came out of the fog I found the stack of books I purchased right before Christmas. I found a book I'd bought and marked up years ago called Handling the Truth on the Writing of Memoir by Beth Kephart. I went online and found writing prompt apps and help for beginning writers.
My biggest excuse over the past ten years has been that I don't know how to be a writer. I don't know where to start. I don't know what it requires of me. Being a writer seems so solitary and self-driven. I wouldn't have a trainer or a supervisor or a list of tasks to complete by the end of the day. How could I make sure I was doing it right or that I'd be successful when there was no measure of success or immediate gratification or praise?
Over and over again I read from writers of all different genres, the way to become a writer is to write. Just sit down every day and write. Set a goal of 15 minutes, or 25 words. It doesn't matter how much or how long as long as words get onto the page.
So that's what I did. I wrote. I opened up a blank Word document and wrote out a silly prompt from an app and went for it. And you know what happened? Something resonated inside of me that this is what I'm supposed to be doing. It doesn't matter if anyone reads it. It doesn't matter if it's good or has problems. It matters that I write, that I take that leap of faith and do what Heavenly Father's been telling me to do all along. It matters that I let go of the fear and just jump in and do it.
I can work out the kinks along the way. I can go back and edit. I can learn as I go from the books I've collected, from the memoirs I read, from the classes I'm taking, from life going on around me.
What matters is that I let go of the fear.
I'm looking for a job, and while I'm waiting to hear back, I'm writing. While I'm budgeting, putting my house in order, and living off food storage, I'm writing. I'm taking the last of my credits to finish my degree, and I'm writing.
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