Not Write Now

For the past 2 days, I’ve had the privilege of reading Praying With Our Feet by Lindsey Krinks. Lindsey and I both ended up in Nashville, though we both grew up in the same small church in South Carolina. In fact, my summer job for 2 years in high school was babysitting Lindsey and her brother Russell, which does not make me feel old at all. 

While much of our stories are so very different, there are a couple things we have in common. Both of us were Church of Christ elder’s daughters. Both of us have family histories of addiction, depression, and suicide. I feel a kinship with Lindsey as she describes the confinement of her faith because of the limitations placed on women in our church. I identify with her fear of falling victim to a family curse. 

I know it has been difficult for her to publicize this book, as she is such a selfless person. She is a modern-day Mother Theresa loving on, advocating for, and ministering to the homeless and marginalized here in Nashville. I will plug her book, but I also encourage you to support Open Table, a non-profit organization who’s goal is to end poverty, support the marginalized, and educate others on issues of homelessness. 

This afternoon, I participated in a workshop through The Porch (via Zoom) where Lindsey was able to talk a little bit about her experiences with the publication process. It couldn’t have come at a better time. I’ve been home from Mexico for 2 weeks, and I’m beginning to slide into a funk. I felt like my head was in such a good space, and I was accomplishing so much with my writing and editing. Now that I’m home, I am stalling out. I tried to sit and write today, and I just couldn’t find my groove. I am frustrated and discouraged. I know places aren’t magical, that my body doesn’t physically need to be in Mexico for my brain to be able to write. But my loss for words is making me panic. Will I have to wait until next January to get them back? Will I EVER finish and have something worth publishing? 

Just hearing Lindsey talk about how isolating and challenging the writing process can be, gave me a sense of solidarity. Knowing that someone else has navigated through the same emotions I’m feeling right now is a comfort. I think I need more of this. I need support and resources. I need a writing community. I need to know this funk isn’t permanent. 

Spring in the gardening industry is a vortex of chaos, but I MUST find ways to nurture this skill/desire/outlet of mine. Now that our downstairs renovation is mostly done, there’s a new bedroom for Reagan to use when she’s in town. This will allow me to turn her old bedroom into a writing space. It’s not Mexico, but I will cherish and work with the room I’ve been gifted. I hope some of my words will be able to find me in there.