In the blood

I've been frustrated lately with my writing abilities. It's hard to grow as an author when the spare moments and especially childrenless moments are rare. Take this moment for instance. There are children leaning against my lap, children trying to talk to their cousins via IM on the same computer I am using, and a baby in her crib screeching as she attempts to get my attention.

I don't wish them away, of course. They are my life, my heart. They are my greatest masterpiece, though I am hardly the artist. But I do wish I could find some time to write on a deeper level.

I have been re-reading one of my favorite books - Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers. It's more than a story, more than a romance, it's as if she took the book of Hosea and set it in a more relatable time period and put a microscope over it. It's inspiring, it's beautiful, it's shocking, it's heart-wrenching. It's intimidating. Why should I try to tell a story when I can't do it that way? When I can't piece together the words like she does, making them flow together like poetry?

I know why, of course. Because you don't become an author such as Francine Rivers without practicing. A LOT. Without learning how to cut yourself open and bleed all over the keyboard until it's right. I know that I hold back in my writing. I tend toward making myself look good rather than being honest, and I do it without noticing it or meaning to do it. A habit I need to learn how to break. A scary habit to break!

So I guess I'll keep plugging on. What else can I do? It's in my blood. I just need to learn how to get that blood into my words.