I'm warning you now, this isn't going to be one of my usual light, fluffy, fun posts. So if you want to read one of those, go click on "I Heart This" in my post categories. I won't judge.
No, this post was inspired by some hard-to-read posts on other writers' blogs. If you haven't read this by Natalie Whipple, this by Beth Revis, or this by Kiersten White, go do so now. Maybe not all at once. Like I said, they're hard to read and your head might explode if you attempt to read them in one sitting.
Do you know what I found myself dwelling on while I read all three of those posts? Hint: Not writing. I'd be lying if I said I didn't suffer from an occasional bout of emerald eyes over other people's writing careers. But, no, I found myself thinking about my ovaries. They're for crap.
I haven't talked much about infertility on this blog, but I have in the past on my personal blog, so it's out there.
The thing about writing is that, yes, there are a few authors out there who try to put forth a happy face in their bio about how their entire story came to them in one fail swoop and then sprang forth from their quivering fingers in two weeks fully-formed. But I have a sneaking suspicion that if I actually sat down with said authors over coffee, they would admit that their agent refused to sign them before they agreed to get rid of the evil bunny plot line. And there are times they fear for their family's nutritional safety as they serve another night of frozen chicken pot pies. And their toddler knows every word to every Wiggles song ever created. Not that I have personal experience with this last one. And they feel guilty about those last two. So, while my green-eyed monster may still come out and growl every so often, he stays at bay most of the time.
The thing about infertility? There really are women (a lot of them) who get pregnant the first month they try. Who have a surprise oopsie after one too many margaritas. Who like to complain to you about it in detail. And I go to one of those churches where every other week, some jokester (bless their clueless heart) comments that "somebody must have put something in the water with all these baby bumps around." Umm, yeah, unless my Reproductive Endocrinologist is sneaking into my house to spike my water with a carefully monitored dose of Follistim, Human Chorionic Gonadotropin, and Progesterone, I don't need to worry about that.
But I digress.
Reading those poignant posts from three women whose hearts must have trembled the whole time they typed, all I could think was, "Yes."
Yes, Natalie, it sucks. It sucks, sucks, sucks, the year you've had. I wish I could promise you that this time next year you'd be holding an ARC in your hands, but no writer receives that promise. Ever. But I'm praying that you'll be able to send out some book-baby announcements soon.
Yes, Beth, it's hard. It's so very hard to remember that there will always be someone with less and always someone with more. I have friends who have walked the infertility path with me who don't have a cherished Pea. Who haven't heard "I love you, Mommy" yet. Do you know how much God loves them? Just as much as me. And just as much as Michelle Duggar. But still, my heart hurts for them.
And, know what? I thank God now for my infertility. Without it, I wouldn't have the Pea. I'm also kind of thankful for it because it keeps the writing thing in perspective. My husband and my child...they are real. They matter. No book (published or not) will ever matter like that. And those harsh critiques now, the sting of rejection...I have faith that someday I'll look back and realize that they helped me to polish and hone my craft. That I'll be thankful for them someday.
Yes, Kiersten, I'm enjoying it. Every baby step of the journey. I've been so blessed in my family even if 3 is as big as it gets. I can't put it into words. And I've been so blessed in my writing to have little victories along the way. I know there are many writers who haven't had those and yet who still plug away. Keep at it. You're not alone.
So there you have it. Crap ovaries, check. Thankful heart, check. Still struggle with the green-eyed monster, check.
In short, I'm human. Just one who has a hard time making more humans.