Since I sent off my manuscript, I feel emptied–perhaps peaceful. Even aimless. For four years, I hammered away at my memories. A difficult task—certainly no labor of love. I had lunch with four other writers on Saturday, and was envious of their enthusiasm—their lust for writing. Each was years younger than I and working on futuristic novels. I wondered that something might be wrong with me as I struggle with every word. Every sentence. Every thought, my critic working overtime. Even as I write this, she smirks and points a finger at my computer from over my shoulder.
You scramble for words and can’t get out of your own way. What makes you think you are a writer, when you stumble over every thought that enters your head? You think anyone is going to read this? You should have taken at least another year to mold your manuscript into something more interesting—more uplifting—more worthy of being shared.
I feel humbled. Beat up. Taken to task. As if I should kneel at the feet of my confessor and ask for a penance. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I dared reveal things about the convent that most former nuns would never dare.”
As I await my penance from behind the other side of the confessional screen, I hear a kinder voice from within, rather than my imagined pious response from a priest. It is the less familiar voice of my Inner Wisdom, and it silences even my Inner Critic.
Hey, dear one. You have shared YOUR truth. Your version of nineteen years in the convent. Whether anyone else cares or understands, doesn’t matter. You began writing years ago to relieve yourself of memories that burdened you for too long. Applaud yourself and move on. A whole new chapter awaits you.