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The house is quiet, save the soft babble of water passing through the aquarium filter and the occasional snore from the Jack Russell sleeping at my feet. I’m in my comfy chair, in my comfy clothes, staring at a blinking cursor.

Anyone who knows me at all knows I like words, and I use a lot of them. (There’s a reason one of Daddy’s pet names for me was “Chatterbox.”)  I’ve been blessed over the years with the ability to pen words almost as easily as I can speak them. I should be hearing the clickety-clack of fingers on the keyboard. I should be seeing words fly from the depths of my being onto the clean white page. But today, the blessing seems more a bitter pill.

I launched my first blog with a mind full of ideas and good intentions. I described that first attempt as puttering down the on-ramp onto the information superhighway. I didn’t expect to start out at interstate speed, but I did expect to reach a steady cruising velocity in short order. Six years and three blogs later, I am still wandering the countryside with an armful of maps, none of which seem to lead to a destination. This is not for lack of trying. I’m doing my homework, and I’ve taken some of the recommended steps for the novice aspiring to the next level.

Just this morning I asked my husband, also an aspiring writer, to read a work-in-progress piece I’d started earlier in the week. I knew this wasn’t my best effort, but I felt the need to explain to my small but faithful cadre of readers why, again, I had been off the road so much recently. He read the article, put down the laptop, and looked at me quietly for a moment. The kindness of silence confirmed what I already knew in my heart: I may as well have been writing dialogue for Charlie Brown’s teacher. “Wha wah, wha wha wha wha, wha wha wha wha wha wha.”

Why do I struggle so?  I take some consolation in what a seasoned author told me not long ago. Life gets in the way of all writers, especially those who still have careers outside of the craft. My mind tells me I’m still thirty-five, but the mirror and the chiropractor tell me otherwise. I am nearing the end of my first career, and I’m nowhere near being what I want to be when I really grow up.

Not long ago I read that an aspiring writer should have a new blog post at least once a week, so like Jean Luc Piccard captaining the Enterprise, I declared, “make it so!” I did well for a couple of months, then life got in the way, again. A tyranny of urgent business deadlines and personal commitments lasted from August until October. I came home from longer-than-usual work days worn and weary, and during those weeks I managed only one post. My blog statistics tanked.

Am I trying too hard? Are statistics and goals and self-imposed guidelines killing my creativity? As much as I don’t want to face that reality, I suspect so. My efforts to be a writer have knocked me off track, like a detour meandering through too many side streets with too few signs pointing the way back to the main thoroughfare.

I think to a large extent writers are like cars on the highway. The automobile industry evolved because one car didn’t suit the needs (or the fancy) of every driver. I bought a Ford Escape because that model best met my needs and wants at a price I could afford. She’s ten years old now, and we’re still running around together. Every so often I look at newer, shinier cars and wonder if I should consider a trade. But this car is still likable and reliable and, like me, she still cleans up pretty well!

One style or method of writing won’t suit every writer, or every reader, for that matter. For me, getting back on track means admitting that I have never fit into a mold. I’m more like a square peg with the edges knocked off sufficiently to fit and function in the round hole. I graduated high school “back in the day,” when a person could really forge a career from hard work, dedication, self-motivation, and a degree from the school of hard knocks. IBM marketed the personal computer the same year and, over time, I worked my way into a career change that has lasted over twenty years now. Technology has grown exponentially during that time; I have only to look at my nephew’s LinkedIn profile to realize how much the industry has changed. But I have had a good run, and I’m still running strong, just like my little Escape.

I’ll keep writing, and learning, and growing. But I will navigate at my own speed and follow my own road map. I will not sacrifice my writer’s passion, creativity, or personality because some expert says I must follow some specific pattern to be a success. I am not the first writer who started out in the last trimester of life, and I am quite sure I won’t be the last.

I’ll be looking for you at the next stop along the highway; I hope to see you there!

Copyright 2016 Sherry Hathaway All rights reserved.