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 creating.
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.
“I...” Carly began, then stopped.
“Oh, hell. I’m not good with words in situations like this.”
His laugh came quick, charmed by her nerves. “Pretty pathetic declaration for a writer.”
Carly stuck out her bottom lip in a very alluring pout. He was tempted to stop and take her mouth with his again.
“Don’t mock me. When it’s on paper I can get it right. Real life has no re-writes, no editing.”
“Granted.” 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 alive.
Carly squared her shoulders. “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression about me. Concerning men.”
When 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.”
Carly turned to look at him. Irritation crossed in her narrowed eyes. “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”
“No,” 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.