Writerly Wednesday: It doesn't get any worse than this

It's hard to believe more than 60 days have passed.

In some ways it feels like it's been years since the last time I wrote a true blog post. In other ways, it feels like I've merely blinked.

I'm not exaggerating when I say I've traveled the hardest road of my life during the past nine weeks.

If only I'd quit asking how life could get any worse.

I don't remember the first time that question popped into my head. It was probably about 13 years ago, when I dropped my daughter off at daycare and, as I headed to work, I seriously contemplated missing the turn and disappearing from my life.

It wasn't that I didn't love my daughter and husband. I just didn't love anything about me.

Fortunately, I realized that you can't run away from yourself.

Instead of missing the turn in to work that day, I turned to God and prayed. He led me out of that dark place, right into a job that helped me become a better writer. He led me to a place where I could chase my dream.

And things were good. For awhile. Until the realization of my husband's alcohol addiction and depression settled upon me.

As he went through withdrawal, I started asking myself: "How can it get any worse than this?"

As he struggled through med changes, I thought: "It can't get any worse than this."

And when he was prescribed one med a few years ago that nearly destroyed him, I let myself wonder: "Really? How could it possibly get any worse than this?"

Well, for starters, a new general practitioner's inexperience with bipolar and anxiety disorders could lead him through three med changes in four visits.

That GP could call me at work to tell me she's "worried about Dana."

I could snap at her and say, "I'm worried too. You need to quit screwing with his meds. Don't you realize what that does?"

She could lie to me about the course of treatment she wants to take, and then later have the nerve to write in her notes that I seemed "unconcerned" about my husband's well being.

The situation could actually get so bad I'd have trouble processing my anger several weeks later.

Still, within days I found myself asking: "How could life get any worse?"

Well, my gorgeous teenage daughter could date someone who doesn't respect her boundaries.

A 500-year flood could hit my hometown.

A raging river could rise to within 200 yards of my childhood home.

I could develop such a cynical attitude about writing that my eyes would roll back into my head when an agent would post something on Facebook or Twitter.

I could question whether or not I should let go of the dream I'd been chasing for years.

I could spiritually fall into a place so dark the very existence of God seemed laughable.

Sigh.

Yeah, it got that bad. But I now realize it could have been much, much worse.

I've read that writers aren't supposed to use their blogs as personal diaries.

It could be detrimental to your pursuit of publication.

Guess what? I've decided I don't give a damn.

I'm not bitter (except about the doctor thing). I just realized that I no longer enjoyed writing -- and living -- because I stopped writing and living from the heart.

I realized my heart was dying, and my body was becoming an empty shell.

Believe me. It won't get any worse than that. I won't let it.

It took a long time and I've traveled a long, hard road to bring you the most important (I believe) piece of writerly advice I can give.

That is: You'll go crazy writing what you think other people might want to read and living how you think other people might want you to live. Don't do it. Instead, write what you feel, and don't be afraid to let people see you are real.

Peace and happiness.

Floored

You know that saying about peeling an onion and finding its layers?

Well, I discovered this weekend that the same can sometimes be said about floor coverings.

When Dana and I bought our house about five years ago, we knew the carpet in the office would have to be replaced sooner or later. Unfortunately, unforeseeable circumstances turned it into later (regardless of how much iced tea was spilled on it. A-hem.) But in the time we waited for new floor coverings for the office, we learned a couple of things about the guy who had worked on the house before we came along.

1. He didn't know diddly squat about drywall. (The texture on the upstairs walls was a little . . . shall we say aggressive. Actually, before we remodeled, you couldn't lean against the wall without receiving puncture wounds.)

2. Work ethic wasn't really a strong point in this particular individual. (He cut a lot of corners.)

So, we probably shouldn't have been surprised when we started working on the office floor yesterday.

At about noon, Dana and I began removing furniture from the office. The plan was to clear a path for the carpet guy to come in to lay the carpet on Monday evening.

But as we peeled back the carpet, Dana and I began to realize we probably weren't going to need a carpet . . . much less someone to lay it.

Beneath the pad, we discovered a beautiful oak floor.

Well, okay, it was more like a diamond in the rough because the gentleman I mentioned before (Yeah, Mr. Poor Work Ethic) had redone the drywall in this room without throwing a drop cloth over the floor; giant splotches of white mud gloobers covered the floor.

I'm still asking, "WHY? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?"

On the bright side, living with a professional drywaller for 13 years has diminished my fear of drywall mud. On clothes, it comes out in the washing machine with litle trouble. On floors, it cleans up with a little elbow grease, a full gallon of vinegar, three cups of Murphy's oil soap, eight gallons of water and an entire bottle of Minwax wood cleaner for floors. (But not all at the same time.)

It was dirty. It was muddy.

But after four scrubbings with a mop and bucket and two scrubbings on my hands and knees with the bottle of Minwax, we finally won the battle.

By 10 p.m., my office was back in ship-shape.

What do you think?