When life gives you a metaphor, it's time to take notice.

I was working in my backyard a couple of weekends ago, cleaning up the remnants of winter and making way for the few months of lush green growth the prairie offers, when I stopped and saw it. It wasn't anything I hadn't seen before, but still, I found myself frozen in place, staring at the small flower garden in our backyard. For a split second, it was no longer a few lilacs and tulips and weeds. It was a reminder.

Making progress is hard. It's true for most everyone - that wild sprint or gentle jog after goals we set for ourselves. Sometimes it's material - a bigger paycheque that shows itself in cars or houses or vacations. Sometimes it's less tangible - a clean bill of health at the next doctor's visit or learning a state of calm after being riddled with anxiety. When paired with the right mind-set, goals can be healthy and motivating and satisfying. But almost always, progress is still hard.

I've been steadily plodding along in my writing journey. I've had a few things published, and many submissions rejected. I've developed a small following on social media (not my comfort zone, but necessary they say!), though my numbers are not nearly as big as others. I find time to write most weeks, but sometimes the demands of paid work and motherhood and being a human are just too much to squeeze creativity into the cracks of time that are left.

Sometimes little seeds of worry and doubt and imposter syndrome fill those cracks of time instead, and I start to think about all the goals I'm not accomplishing. All the successes I'm yet to have.

But then I remember. I wrote a book. And that's something.

Writing a book is hard. It's a marathon of drafts and feedback and edits and adaptations. It's adding or changing characters to better illustrate the truth of the protagonist, or cutting scenes that took a week or more of life to painstakingly craft. It's finding another typo or missing word despite having read it ten thousand times. It's caring deeply about your characters - wanting their story told and understood so much it hurts. It's using the falsehoods of fiction to tell the truth of life and love and pain and fear.

I don't say any of this with regret, nor do I want any of you to feel that this is a hardship in need of your compassion. No, this work was hard - but it has filled me with purpose and gratified my soul.

When I stood in my backyard, I saw the two lilac bushes that we planted several years ago. At first, we weren't sure if they were going to survive where we planted them. It took a while for them to fully take root and flourish - and even now they are not as big and full as others - but they do bloom.

As I took notice that day, the one on the left was full of purple blossoms, while the one on the right had only buds. In front of them were brand new tulips that were planted only last fall, able to flourish at the first opportunity. Suddenly I saw all my attempts in that garden - the successes that have blossomed (some as quick as tulips, others that have taken more time); and the rejections that now sit as waiting buds in my computer files.

But just as those plants all grow in the same thick, rich soil, supported by strong roots and healthy leaves; my journey is also planted in a strong community of support and encouragement. Some things are blooming, and some will come. And you walking this path by my side really does mean the world to me.

This summer, my novel will be sent to a copy editor. With her help, I will put the finishing touches on the manuscript and polish it to the best of my ability. Then I will finalize the curated list of small publishers who may want to know more about my protagonist Nadia, and her family. I will continue to craft my query letter and synopsis, and then I'll watch to see what blooms.

Recently, one submission tasked me with writing a short elevator pitch about the novel. I'm including it below. I hope soon - either through traditional publication or self-publication - you will all get to know Nadia's story.

Fault Lines pitch:

In this provocative novel about what it means to mother and be mothered, a middle-aged woman is thrust into her past when she must suddenly care for her dying stepmother and father with dementia while also searching for her young adult daughter who has simply disappeared, causing a collision between the past she wants to forget, and the present she's desperate to hold onto.

For your goals - whether they be in the writing world or any other part of the human experience - I wish for you a strong season of beautiful blooms. Thank you for being my community, and for reading.

Comments and reflections are welcome below!

©2024 Shirley Hay