Please welcome our guest, Peggy Jaeger, back to the Roses!
Recently, a topic came up with some fellow writers that I feel
needs to be addressed. What happens when writers who love to
write...don't love it so much anymore?
I can hear you shrugging and scratching your heads. Let
me 'splain it to you, Lucy.
The old saying Writers write is accurate...to a
point. Writers write for different reasons, all of them individualistic and all
of them valid for that writer. But sometimes the words won't come, the ideas
don't flow, and the creativity wanes. Sometimes, the writer is just tired
of writing. When that happens, and I tell you this from personal experience, guilt
and depression set in. Because if writers are supposed to write, and then they
don't/won't/can't, a storm of emotions piles on top of an already artistic ( read:
moody) mind. And I don't mean moody as a pejorative, but more as a
descriptor. Writers feel things more than other people do - it's in
our make up. It's what makes up good writers - being able to isolate and
get to the emotional levels of actions and words, our own and our character's.
So, when a writer doesn't write, there has to be an underlying
cause. Now, speaking just from my own experience with writing depression, the
main reason I was in such a state was because of getting published. How dumb does that sound? I finally have
a publisher want something of mine, and the next thing you know I'm depressed
about it. But when I stepped away from the writing, I soon realized that wasn't
what was causing me not to write, it was the whole package that comes with
publication: marketing, sales tracking, social media, appearances and book
signings. I wanted to write - I just wasn't so hot about all the
after-work that goes into it. When I finally came to conclusion I am
not a marketing person, I was able to find the joy again in simply writing.
I don't think my experience is a unique one among writers. We are,
after all, artists. Artists, are by definition, moody. We feel too much, expect
too much ( of ourselves and others), want too much and can really tap into the
emotions of those around and within us. So when something sets us off, we
experience a range of feelings. Sometimes those feeling manifest themselves in
depression or an inability to express ourselves in our work, which in this
case, is the written word.
So, back to me. When I realized it wasn't the writing that wasn't
giving me my joy but the outside stuff associated with it, I was able to
compartmentalize those outside factors - and by that I mean forget about them!!
- and go back to doing what gives me the most joy in my life: writing and
Maybe that adage should be changed from a declarative writers
write to an exclamatory writers WANT to write! By
taking the absolute declaration out of the phrase, maybe, as writers, we'll be
able to cut ourselves a little slack.
The Voices of Angels
The last thing
Carly Lennox is looking for as she sets out on her new book tour is love. The
independent, widowed author is content with a life spent writing and in raising
her daughter. When newscaster Mike Woodard suggests they work on a television
magazine show based on her book, Carly’s thrilled, but guarded. His obvious
desire to turn their relationship into something other than just a working one
is more than she bargained for.
Mike Woodard is an ambitious
man-and not only in his chosen profession. He wants Carly, maybe more than he’s
ever wanted anything or anyone else, and as he tells her, he’s a patient guy.
But the more they’re together, Mike realizes it isn’t simply desire beating
within him. No. Carly is the missing piece in his life. Getting her to accept
it-and him- may just be the toughest assignment he’s ever taken on.
Carly began, then stopped.
hell. I’m not good with words in situations like this.”
laugh came quick, charmed by her nerves. “Pretty pathetic declaration for a
stuck out her bottom lip in a very alluring pout. He was tempted to stop and
take her mouth with his again.
mock me. When it’s on paper I can get it right. Real life has no re-writes, no
The sunlight played with the alternating auburn and fire-red highlights in her
hair as they began to walk again. He was convinced no color had ever been so
squared her shoulders. “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression about me.
he didn’t comment, she continued. “It’s only, well...I haven’t been involved
with anyone since my husband died. I’ve been busy with my daughter and my
writing. I haven’t met anyone I’ve been interested in, I guess.”
turned to look at him. Irritation crossed in her narrowed eyes. “You’re pretty
sure of yourself.”
he replied. “I’m more sure of you, though.” “Excuse me?”
Mike laughed again. He
stopped and cupped her cheeks. “You’re even more
beautiful when you’re angry. Your left eyebrow arches ever so slightly and your
eyes turn the most incredible forest green.” He kissed her and felt her pulse
trip again under his fingers.