It’s Been a Year, Part I

(Written in 2015. Part 1 of 4.)

You know how sometimes things stick with you? Whether you want them to or not?

We go the long way around town to avoid the place where we once had an accident.

We refuse to go back to the restaurant where we once got sick on the way home.

I felt this as the third weekend of January 2015 rolled around.

See, this time last year, I was in a heap of something I-don’t-know-what.

I was writing How to Catch a Prince, but the story wasn’t landing with me.

I couldn’t find the plot, so I started over.

I wrote nearly two hundred pages, and the hero and heroine still had not met.

In love stories, that’s a big no-no. They have to meet in the first two chapters, if not sooner.

So I took a few days to hunker down in a cabin by the river. I wrote for three and a half days without interruptions. (Okay, a few.)

There was no internet so that was a huge help.

My deadline was tight, but as I drove home Friday morning, I felt good about the story.

This was my first book with a new editor, and while I wanted to do my best, I felt my long history with the publisher would lend me a hand or two if the book took a few extra days.

That night at church, we had a guest worship leader and I was looking forward to worshipping and visiting with our friend. I was also eager to forget about the book for a weekend.

But by the of the night, I was really tired.

Then again, it had been a long week.

On the drive home, we talked about pizza for dinner.

The tiredness sank deeper.

I felt through-the-wall tired.

And…weird.

I was hot, prickly, and like something was running under my skin. Was I getting sick?

I figured a slice of pizza and a good night’s sleep would fix me right up.

I woke at 2:30 a.m. and went to the bathroom.

That’s when I heard it.

“You don’t have enough time.”

Subtle. Slick. Like a snake.

It grabbed me.

Panic.

I’ve had plenty of anxious moments writing books, and usually they come in the middle of the night.

Isn’t that the way?

However,I breathe deep and pray through it, grab my bearings, and remember I have the story in command.

Not this night.

I was locked. I couldn’t get out of the panic. I felt as if my breathing was slowing down.

My husband came running as I passed out into the bathtub. Angels were watching over me, because there were several places where I could’ve smacked my head hard.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he said.

“I feel like I’m dying.”

He made me lie down and immediately started praying over me.

Within seconds, the panic lifted, and I felt more like myself.

But the “skimming skin” sensation remained. So did the prickles around my head.

I concluded I was just having a bad night. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before.

Back to bed, I slept, but all weekend I had waves of the same sensation.

By the beginning of the week, I felt better. More like myself.

I had good writing time, which I needed since I had a lot of words to cover before my deadline.

But then the shakes started happening.

At night, I’d shiver and quiver. My heart pounded. I couldn’t sleep. This led to a new level of stress.

The old what-ifs came around. What if I don’t get done on time? What if panic hits again? What if I can’t do it?

My publisher had invited me to my first-ever sales meeting in March, and I did not want to miss it. But at this rate, I wasn’t sure I could get on a plane.

I’ve flown in the face of adversity several times, but physically and emotionally, I was battling something new.

There was no joy. No peace. I wanted to quit.

But when I imagined calling my publisher to tell her, that brought no relief.

Then I knew. I simply had to walk through whatever this was.

When I sat at my desk to write, I could feel something coursing through my body. My courage and hope drained. My appetite shrank. Nothing tasted good. I remember choking down a piece of grilled chicken.

I went melancholy. I thought nothing in life would ever be right again, never mind the novel I was writing.

My goal had to be five thousand words a day.

No, not my goal.

My need was five thousand words a day.

So, feeling like toilet paper stuck to the bottom of some crazy-life shoe, I sat down and wrote.

And tried not to cry.

I had no idea if any of the story was publishable.

But I pushed through.

Here I am a year later and my editor read me two reviews from Goodreads.

“This book DESTROYED my heart… This book was every bit amazing.”

And…

“Excellent book, fans of Christian fiction will love this one. This book wasn’t as light and fluffy as the other two in the series, but that was a good thing. Regret and forgiveness aren’t easy topics. I loved both Stephen and Corina even though Stephen was a jerk at times. The author did a great job of showing why he was that way, so he was more of a wounded hero than someone who didn’t deserve Corina.”

Sigh…

How beautiful is God?

I came up from a very dry wilderness leaning on my Beloved to write this book.

And it makes me smile that readers are connecting.

Stay tuned for the rest of the journey…

[Tweet “You’re Not Crazy, You’re Super Menopausal”]

 

Click here for Part 2.