I know I’m not alone when I say I have been in a place where the pain is blinding, and the very idea of writing is unimaginable. This is one of those posts. It’s about survival and self-love and honesty. It’s also about finding joy.
My child was in great distress from early fall through the end of the year. I could not see or think or hear. I could only feel, and what I was feeling was intangible and immeasurable. It’s something I’m still grappling with, to say nothing of how I am trying to support my kid, but some days, I still feel as if I’m on a wild ocean current without a life vest. During those months, I also happened to have the largest number of deadlines I’ve ever had in my life. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, they say and I was—am—grateful for the projects under contract, but—
I had to allow myself the “but.” It’s the first “but” I’ve ever really used since I began my career as a writer. I’ve been a workhorse, doing my share and then some, always finding the bright side of things, even when the going got rough. When the main road was blocked off, I came at things sideways or sneaked under a bypass to find another way. This is who I am. I am one who fails and learns and perseveres.
But.
But as my stress mounted and my deadlines drew closer, I learned a valuable lesson. Sometimes, one cannot see a bright side. One cannot put everything aside and do what needs to be done for work or home or living. One must sit quietly and allow the pain to come. To wash over you, so you may feel it. Process it. Emanate it. In those moments, it is omnipresent, and there is nothing else. You are a vessel of pain. And you know what? That’s okay, because there is no fighting something you cannot control.
I stared at my computer screen for literal hours, days passing to weeks. Weeks passing to months. My brain was foggy, emotion clotted in my chest, and I could only call one word to mind over and over again: impossible. This was impossible, this writing, these deadlines.
Only it wasn’t impossible. It was different. Different in the way that I had come to a new understanding of what my limitations are and what is important. Unforeseen disruptions can be as annoying as a bathtub leaking through the ceiling or a Homer-style tragedy; a disruption that rocks the very foundation of our lives. So I owned it, this disruption. I started to think differently about my work—my writing—and about the list of things I didn’t, wouldn’t, and couldn’t do. How important were are all of these deadlines, in the end? In Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, they were at the top of the pyramid in my mind, and I was at the bottom.
I’ll never forget the incredibly inspired, lovely, funny, and ultimately heart-wrenching, keynote speech Ann Hood delivered at a conference I attended a few years ago. She lost her daughter to a virulent case of strep throat at around age 7 or so. She talked about the way the pain paralyzed her and closed the part of her brain that longs to tell stories. She couldn’t feel her way through a story anymore because it was to evoke her pain all over again. Her speech was honest, gut-wrenching, and moving, and yet, the audience also laughed and laughed. By the end of it, we cheered for this woman who had discovered something precious about herself, about life, and also about her writing. Her inspiration hadn’t gone away. It had only been on pause and during that difficult time, her creative and emotional well were quietly learning how to fill up again.
Though my story is different, the end result is the same. When I let go of trying to do and be and keep it all together, things were quietly falling into place. My agent, editors, and my writing partner who were all depending on me on the other side of those deadlines, knew me. They knew how much my writing and my professionalism meant to me, and they empathized with my struggle. All I needed to do was ask for help. For a little time. For a little understanding. I didn’t need to punish myself for the work I absolutely could not do. I was on pause, and that was okay.
Finding Motivation
Sometimes, making it through the day with small comforts is all there is. Other days, there is a glimmer of motivation—a craving for normalcy—and I learned to seize it. It’s how I found my way back in to writing. I was on a very long, cold, dark walk well into the evening when I heard a whisper from my protagonist. She was trying to show me there was a parallel to what I was experiencing; that I needed to take my experience and channel it onto the page. Soon, I found myself sitting down with a pen and a journal gifted to me by a friend.
I quickly jotted down this parallel my protagonist was trying to show me.
I wrote a journal entry that started out in my point of view and morphed into my main character’s.
I waded into a scene that needed to reflect on pain and loss and channeled everything I had into it.
And in subsequent days, I rediscovered a trick that has always helped me when my life, or my head and my heart are too full. I set an alarm and woke up so early I had to peel my eyelids back, with the promise to let myself nap later in the day. But the house and my head were quiet, and I found relief there, in that silence, and amid the fictional world I was trying to create. The words came back little by little.
To struggle is inherent with being alive. I know this on a cerebral level, but it is the stark and difficult emotional reminder that really threw me into a tailspin. Still, I like to believe my experience will shape me as a writer for the better, even if that is hard to see some days. And here, my friends, comes that looking on the bright side again that has, thankfully, ruled my life.
If you are in the midst of some unfathomable pain, I extend my hand to you. If coping means not writing right now, it’s okay. It’s good, even. It’ll come back to you, just as your joy will. All in good time. All in good time.
What are your coping techniques that help you find your way back to the page again, whether it be from a long spell away from it because of lack of motivation or from some difficulty that has arisen in your life?
About Heather Webb
Heather Webb is the USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of historical fiction. To date, Heather’s books have sold in over a dozen countries worldwide. As a freelance editor, Heather has helped many writers sign with agents and go on to sell at market. When not writing, she feeds her cookbook addiction, geeks out on history and pop culture, and looks for excuses to head to the other side of the world.
Thank you for this elegant, heartfelt post, Heather. Life shatters us at times, but when we can write again, that shattering makes the work more.
Mermaids!!!!! YAY!!!!!
LOL
Thanks, my friend. A mother’s love, we know what that really means.❤
Come here, Heather! Right now! Brace yourself for this bear hug, lady. I wanna hug the consciousness out of you. That’s it! I’m officially your Fanboy! You had me at “hello”. Oh, right, you didn’t say hello did you?
This was / is my Heather era. Many people might want to forget 2020. I cannot. I will not. It’s the year I got a little closer to Heather Webb. I browsed around her website (internet stalker?), read one of her books, told her I hated one of her beautifully written characters (Um hm, hate’em forever), and shared a laugh or two, maybe even snorted. Right?
The circumstances of 2020 allowed me the opportunity to connect with people who I normally wouldn’t have a chance to connect with. Ha! Seizing the moment was inevitable. Connecting is a constant for me. I’ve known this about myself for many moons. It’s one of the things I love about myself (self-love), and it’s one of my best coping techniques.
Connecting with people who will share vulnerable parts of themselves and willing to accept the vulnerable parts of me—PRICELESS—plus, a great help for character development.
I’ll take that hug. Thanks, Brian. And thanks for the laughs❤
” I wanna hug the consciousness out of you” is my new favorite phrase!
LOL!!!
This is incredibly raw, and wise. I can feel the depth in these words.
Proud of you, Heather.
Thank you, Sarah. I only wish wisdom didn’t come at such a price, but alas. It does make good fodder for writing, doesn’t it. Big hugs.
Thank you for writing such a beautiful, honest post Heather. Pain and sadness and grief are so much harder to bear when we can’t do anything to change the causes of them. Thinking of you, and your family, and extending a hand back to you.
Yay, what she said!
Thank you, Liz. How right you are. X
Thank you for this. So important for people to know, and to really believe: our feelings—all of them—are part of the experience of being alive.
They are! That whole saying about not understanding joy without pain is utterly true. I never realized how true it is. Thanks for your comments today
You did let it out, Heather. You did pour it onto to the page . . . for us. And we are grateful.
Big, big hugs
Dee
Thank you, Dee. I love this community so much!
Gosh, I’m feeling a little rattled. I know I’m older than you, but for more years than I can count anymore, you have been like my writerly big sister. For me, you are like a tower of strength, with a beacon of light, shining out, illuminating the writing/pub world. And I didn’t even know you were in pain, or struggling. Guess that’s probably due to your strong persona.
Thank you for sharing so much of yourself, both here and as is your habit. You’re a force of nature, always there for others, and I want you to know that I sincerely want to be there for you, in any way I possibly can be. Sending healing thoughts to you and yours.
Vaughn, you made my day, my friend. A beacon of light, well, there’s not much more I could wish for. Thank you for your friendship and for the friendly shoulder. X
Heather, this is a beautiful essay, full of hope and wisdom. You are an inspiration, my friend, and we’re so very lucky that you share that wisdom with us here at WU regularly. Thank you. May your well continue to fill, and may things continue to heal and improve with your dear one. xo
Thanks, T. I’m so glad and lucky to call you friend. Xxx
I believe our characters live inside us and though we might have to let them sleep when our lives are in turmoil (we moved cross country during the pandemic) they will awaken and be there for us when we need them. Honest and beautiful post. Thank you.
Perfectly stated, Beth. And thank you
I went through much the same thing recently. I’m sure our circumstances were different, but I still relate to the blinding pain and mind-numbing inability to put words on the page. I’m just coming out of it and rediscovering the joy of storytelling. Thank you for your encouraging article!
Wishing you much healing and courage as you push on. We’re lucky we have our writing to help with the healing process. Thanks for your comments today.
Your post left me both shaken and moved. You reminded me that the last person I ever give a break is myself. As Barbara said, above, sometimes life shatters us. Sitting in a pile of broken glass is not something I’ve done willingly. But the times I’ve been forced to the floor have made me more resilient and hopefully, empathetic. When I get up, and hopefully we always do, I’m changed. I feel your words in my bones this morning. Thank you for writing them.
It’s so so difficult to give ourselves a break, isn’t it? Thanks for your beautiful comment today, Susan. And I hope you give yourself a “but.”
Yes. This. SO MUCH THIS.
I lost my hero, my cheerleader, my beloved daddy – on December 2nd to COVID. Back up nine months prior. The nine months our family was not allowed to touch, kiss, or hug my father due to his care facility’s lockdown. (I understand the WHY. To keep him safe.) BUT. In this, the facility that determined to keep Daddy “safe,” is where he ultimately contracted COVID from staff and died.
Minutes before he died (I can hardly bear to utter the word), the nurse held the phone to Daddy’s ear so I could say “I love you, Daddy. I love you.” I’m sure I said it a hundred times. I really, really hope he heard.
The grief is consuming. At times, it brings me to my knees. The “how” he died. The “way” he died. The “why” he died. All of it.
Because I’m a Christian, yes, I know “he is in a better place,” free of pain, suffering, Alzheimer’s, COVID. Still…when a person is grieving, heartfelt platitudes (while well-intentioned) don’t offer complete solace.
Grief, I’ve learned, makes people uncomfortable. I understand that. It’s easier to say the easy things. Yet, people need to understand, too, sometimes, we just need others to share in our uncomfortableness and linger a bit. Allow us to wallow in the muck and mire for a while. Just “be.” Be with us as we figure out the road ahead and search for the sunnier path we believe is still there.
As one who’s also in deadline mode just now, please know your words, this post, touched me to the core. Thank you.
Prayers, hugs, and much love to you as you succeed in your goals and fulfill your mission.
Cynthia, I’m so sorry. It makes me so sad and mad you all couldn’t be with your father for all those months. Saying a prayer for you and all yours. Pax Christi.
I’m so sorry, Cynthia. My beloved mother died Dec. 4. We were fortunate in that she did not have COVID, so she died at home, and my brother and youngest daughter and I were all with her when she died. I can only imagine the pain of all those months of separation, and the inability to see your father in person or hug him. I hope your grief gets easier to bear, and I’m so sorry for your loss and for the loss of those final hugs and final goodbyes. That’s a lot to grieve. Big hugs.
My deepest sympathies, Cynthia (and a small bout of sobbing in the laundry). Just moments before I read this I had a nurse holding the phone for my dad so I could tell him I love him. He’s in ICU in another country, and only the good God knows what his future holds. I put my faith in the goodness of God and walk alongside the Man of Sorrows with my grief and uncertainty and fear.
And today I start trying to write again, as an act of obedience and an act of trust, doing the work God has given me and leaving to him the burden of worrying about my father. Trying to, anyway.
Deborah, sending you His Light and Love through this difficult period. And prayers. I’m glad you are writing again in obedience–there is such peace in doing God’s will.
Oh, Cynthia, how utterly tragic. I’m so sorry you–and he–endured such a difficult path.
“Grief makes us uncomfortable.” A simple but utterly perfect statement. How true that is.
“How are you today?”
“Fine, thanks. You?”
We do not say how wretched we are or how empty or how much we yearn for something they cannot give us. But we prevail, because we must, and we are better for it. I do believe that.
Sending you healing and strength as you move through your days, finding the light again.
Heather, our children are our hearts walking outside our bodies and how we wish we could protect them from all the dangers of this world. Thank you for this beautiful essay. Sending you virtual hugs and real prayers.
As for me, the second half of 2020 was tough (accident/surgeries/ still recovering). I signed up for an online class that our own Julianna Baggott offers–Jumpstart–and it’s exactly what I need right now. I’m very rusty but I’m writing again. Here’s the link: https://store.juliannabaggott.com/downloads/jumpstart-writer-to-writer/
Oh, Heather, this is wonderful. Searingly honest and yet absolutely universal in what you’re experiencing. THANK YOU for this. I have been there; I am there; I will be there again.
Sending all the love your way. One day at a time we go…to do it with friends make it so much more meaningful and bearable.
“Sometimes, making it through the day with small comforts is all there is.”
Heather, indeed, for you and so many of us, for various reasons over the past year, have looked for solace in the simple things.
Thank you for the depth of your expression here, your willingness to share in the fears and the darkness, and for pointing to a lit candle ahead. I’m sorry for your pain, and glad to hear you are working through it.
Thank you so much, Tom.
Heather, I am not a writer, I am your friend. You know much about my life, but I am not sure you know how I have coped with similar deep pain as yours. Most of my coping skills throughout the first seventy years of my life never brought me to a place where is had peace of mind. My inner (wise) self knew that I was failing miserably at dealing with my pain in a healthy way, even though I always tried very hard to do what was right and what was best. Like you, I’ve always set a high standard for myself. One can have high standards, but still, unknowingly, flounder around in counterproductive, destructive actions. Three years ago, I went away for the summer to receive the help I desperately needed to, first of all, learn to like myself, then forgive myself. The mantra that was said over and over during my hiatus was, “You can’t do better until you know better.” I learned! I now know! Because of what I learned, I now know how to be the best mother, the best sister, the best grandmother, and the best friend. I have known you for a very long time. With each passing year, I have discovered more about you to love and respect more than before. As I read your post, tears filled my eyes. My empathy “chip” was ringing out loud and clear. I understand your pain, my dear friend, and my heart breaks for you. We are survivors. We seek answers. We love and forgive. We give out the grace that we each desperately need. We love ourselves. Most of all, we never give up.
Today is a new day with all sorts of possibilities, right? This is going to be the best day ever! I love you.
Thank you for your loving comments. I’m so blessed to have a friend in you, dear Gloria. Love you!!! X
Thank you for that, Heather. I too have not been writing. I was swimming along and even had a well-known publisher ask me to make some changes and resubmit and then the bottom fell out. My youngest graduated at the start of COVID and had a job offer rescinded. He changed gears but he’s had a few other disappointments. He’s also had a few health issues. The specter of Congressman Jamie Raskin’s son’s death just looms in my consciousness. I hate being vulnerable but there’s nothing else that I can be right now. And that is the lesson. I can’t control my fictional world anymore than I can control my son’s situation when the fear and pain are so raw. This too shall pass and I will wait for the day my creative well yields its turmoil to clearer waters. Hugs.
I’m sorry to hear about your struggles, Liz. You’ve had many curve balls the last few years and you deserve some happiness. Sending big hugs your way and health to your son. I just keep saying to myself that spring is on the way
I am so sorry for your pain. It took courage to face it and let it wash over you. My hope in the better days ahead for you is that you look in the mirror and appreciate the mettle of your makeup. It is no small accomplishment. And your future joy tempered by the sorrow you have known will be deeper and stronger for the journey. Blessed be your journey, Heather.
What a beautiful thing to say. Thank you for that, Bernadette.
Heather,
Above you wrote, “Thank you, Sarah. I only wish wisdom didn’t come at such a price, but alas. It does make good fodder for writing, doesn’t it. Big hugs.”
In our bones wisdom is the one weight we long to hold and not release. And yes it comes at a price, the price of losing life going as WE want it to, as we demand it to. It makes sense that it comes at a price, the price of giving up, giving in. Because until we let life lead (as you found, perhaps as a path to maintain sanity) there will be no true giving back and giving out.
You inspire many of us and I suspect your gifts will kick into a higher gear. I stand in awe.
Thank you for this, Tom. This is really beautifully said:
“Because until we let life lead (as you found, perhaps as a path to maintain sanity) there will be no true giving back and giving out.”
You have gathered and stored your own wisdom, I see. :)
This is such a raw, affecting, and stunning post, Heather. Thanks for sharing your honesty and vulnerability, and giving authors permission to step back when we need to.
I hope there are brighter days ahead for you and your family.
Thank you, Tiffany,.for your comments and the good wishes.
<3
Thank you for this vulnerable, beautiful post, Heather!
And thank you for making it okay to allow yourself a “but”. I had to learn that the hard way this past year as well.
Hugs to you, my friend!
Why do we always have to learn the hard way? I hope things are looking up for you, too.
Isn’t it remarkable how courage works? When you reach through pain, or past it, to give your eloquent voice once again, isn’t it beautiful how love comes smiling back from so many directions? So many here are struck by the same chord as we move in harmony with your heart. May I add my thanks, Heather, for your strength and your care in reaching across the ether to writer friends who share some measure of your grief, pain, triumph, devotion. The love and compassion expressed here today is because of you, because of who you are–a treasure.
Dan, I am so touched by your thoughtful and heartfelt reply. Thank you so much for that, and for your encouragement.
Wow, what a moving, honest post. Thank for being willing to share something so heartfelt and painful. Most of all, thanks for embracing your BUT.
(Hmmm, that came out sounding dirtier than I meant. But I digress…)
I think one of the worst pieces of advice drummed into artists is that “the show must go on.”
Why? Just so somebody else can be… entertained?
I lived by that credo for decades, until I finally hit some points where sorry, but the show needed to stop. And to my amazement, the world did not stop turning. No holes were torn in the time-space continuum. And – as you found – when you explain why you need to stop the show, people actually understand.
To be sure, nobody will ask you to stop. But if you decide to stop for a good reason, it’s pretty hard to criticize. But it’s on each of us to determine where that stopping point is, and to be willing to put on the brakes. I’m so sorry you were pushed to that point, but so glad you realized it was time to think about your BUT.
(Damn, that sounded dirty, too – but you know what I mean.)
Good on you, for your self-discovery, and for sharing that discovery with us. I suspect you helped a lot of people today. I’m one of them.
Wishing you and your loved ones all the best in this new year.
-Keith
Hahahaha. You’re always good for comic relief, Keith! And yet you balance it so beautifully with depth and meaning. Thanks, buddy. I will definitely continue to think about my but.
Heather: Bless you my friend for having your big generous heart and for sharing your pain and frustration. You hide it well. Like everyone, I have seen grief, despair and lots of trials and tribulations. As I have aged, I now realize that life is a long, sometimes arduous journey with all the ups and downs but life is also a learning curve that lifts us up when we most need it. We only need to keep hope in our hearts that better days are ahead. We can look forward to that day and charge forward. Sending love and gratiude to you for brightening many hours for me with your passion for a truly great story. Great storms bring brilliant sunny skies. We struggle with so many obstacles but courage wins out.
Are you sure you aren’t a writer, Jenny, because this is a gorgeous comment. Thank you, my friend. I will cling to that hope and courage and look for good things ahead. <3
Heather! What a touching post. I’m sorry you and your family had to endure this, but I’m grateful for your courage and perseverance. You inspire us all.
Thank you, dear Michele.
Beautifully said. Thank you.
As for what I do–despair? I signed up for an online writing workshop–it’s been a good fit and has helped me regain my vision for my book and my will for working through the revisions. I have also upped my blogging–it IS writing something and that does help me at least.
Yes! Sometimes writing is a wonderful tool and always has been for me. Until now. I’m so glad to hear the workshop is helping you! I think k mixing things up sometimes to get us out of our normal routine can be so hugely beneficial
I found out recently that I have Lupus. I have been healthy most of my life, so this was shocking. With this came marital problems. And I can’t write a dang word, I was so depressed, because I have been writing since 3rd grade. This made me more miserable than the other problems. But you have now given me hope. Thank you so very much.
Judith, I’m so sorry to hear about your diagnosis and resulting relationship issues. That’s so much to digest and learn to adapt to. I’m glad to year you were given an inkling of light in my post. Hang in there and take care of you first. Wishing you well.
Up until five years ago, I have been busily writing since retirement. A fall damaged an already damaged fused spine and required additional surgery. But health insurance required many therapies, i.e., physical, spinal injections, a spinal cord stimulator, etc., before it would approve the surgery. Keeping this as short as possible, pain during all this time was my daily companion. Following the surgery (almost 9 hours), the effects of lengthy anesthesia have left me with some cognitive issues as well as a heavy dose of depression. This has all become a stumbling block to my writing.
Your honest and authentic telling of your story and sharing the speaker’s story has opened a small window of hope for me this morning. Thanks for this post and your willingness to share your experience, Heather.
Oh my goodness, Sherrey, I’m so sorry to hear about your many challenges. Take the small comforts where you can and just know the writing will always be there. You first! Wishing you recovery and good health.
Heather, thank you for this searing post. May the light and joy return to you, your child, and your whole family.
By sharing your pain you’ve reflected our own back to us. You’ve also given us a masterclass on how to combine raw emotion and writerly craft.
When I went through my darkest time, at first I could only listen to Tom Waits’s Hold On; those two words became my mantra. Eventually the pain eased to where I could untangle the different threads of my giref and deal with them individually.
Sometimes all you can do is hold on. <3
Thank you so much for your wonderful comments, Barbara. It’s interesting what happened to me with my music and attention span. I could only watch fluffy escapist films set abroad or listen to very pacific music that I don’t usually sit around listening to. It was odd, as if something in my subconscious and bonded with those musicians at se point or other and I’d never realized it.
I am intrigued by something you said above, as well, about u tangling the different threads of grief. Its such an apt description and I’ve never thought about it that way before. It helps to separate them a little, consider why we are morning any one particular thing at a time. Great food for thought for character writing as well!
Wonderful and inspiring post. Thank you. (Now back to the lavender, but not too much…)