It’s a cold wintry morning here in Montreal. The temperatures have dropped to double digits below zero. Most of the time I am okay with it but sometimes it gets to me and I find it hard to continue without feeling blue. I anxiously wait for spring to come, hopefully it will soon.
Today I feel shaky. It is a day where I feel even nature is conspiring against me. Montreal is feeling overwhelming and I am longing to be in Dubai with my late husband. I am longing for some sunshine and sandy beaches, and I am missing our life together. I am missing him terribly.
To be honest I don’t really know why I feel the way I do sometimes. I try to find beauty around me. God knows I try, but on some days like today I look and look but fail to notice anything.
I ask myself: “What is it that I am looking for? What do I truly want?” And I find the answer in my writing and the progress I am making, or rather, not making.
I have been doing this for years now. My book was published in 2004. And in 2009 when I quit my teaching job I told the principal at the time that I wanted to focus on my writing (the real reason of course being to spend time with my then ailing husband). She asked: “But how will you make a living? Is your book selling?”
No! My book did not sell then and it is not selling now. Despite the fact that whoever reads it loves it and is moved by the story and the characters, and that it “makes them cry.”
Which is enough to make me happy.
In 2011 when I started my blog I wasn’t sure what I was doing at the time. But gradually I found my footing and started having followers. When a year later I was freshly pressed that was validation enough for me to go on doing what I have always wanted and loved to do. Write!
It’s been a long time since that day in August 2012. Nothing much has happened after that. I have had over a hundred Facebook shares for one of my posts this last month. A blessing and an increase from the fifty something shares I had before. I am grateful for my readers and followers.
I knew what I was getting myself into and I wasn’t expecting much. I know that chances are I will not make money from my writing, and in the same way no publisher will want to publish my second book or third because they won’t comply with the market demand.
At the moment I am shaky. My enthusiasm feels shattered. And instead of dreaming the impossible and saying “wouldn’t it be lovely if” I keep repeating to myself “that would never happen.”
What possible good comes out of this? I ask myself. What’s next? Why do I do it then?
Why do I keep writing? Because it brings me relief from the turbulence of my own thoughts, calms my soul and soothes away my anxieties, and saves me from sinking into depression.
And if I can reach that one person, if my articles or books can resonate with that one reader, then I am happy again.