Power Out

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I’m writing this novel. I have 49 days to finish it.

49 days.

Forty-nine.

I’ll be honest, there are moments when I KNOW I’m going to get it done. That I’ll be able to send it in early. I have moments when I think, “Golly, this is a good book!”.

More often, thought, I have moments when I KNOW I’m not. That is will NEVER be finished. That no one will want to read it. That the close friends (or my mom) who do will toss it aside, unfinished because it is wretched…terrible…a waste of paper.

And, in those moments, I feel like I pulled a fast one on everybody with Paint Chips.

Gotcha.

And that, when I’m revealed as a complete and total fraud, everyone will laugh at me while tossing stinky, nasty, rotten eggs at my head.

Gross.

Last night, during a pretty big storm, the power went out.

The only light in my whole neighborhood came from the screen of my laptop. I wrote another couple of paragraphs. I tried to see my handwritten notes (half old school over here). I tried to force the writing.

After all, the deadline clock is ticking away quickly.

So.

Very.

Quickly.

But I couldn’t seem to make good progress. I got stuck.

And I panicked. A little.

“I’m never going to get this done!” and “Why did I think a second novel was a good idea?” and “Who am I kidding???” and “I can’t even risk opening the fridge to get a brownie!!!!!”

My husband came into the room. I didn’t tell him about my little, internal freak out.

He asked how many days I had left.

I told him.

“That’s a lot,” he said. “You’ll make it.”

Calm. Steady. Confident.

He poured himself a bowl of cereal and got out the milk (he’s quick like that).

I forgot to ask for a brownie.

I wrote another few paragraphs before going to bed.

Real, natural writing. In the dark.

I read a little on my iPod (reading by candlelight makes me carsick).

Putting my head on my pillow, I remembered something. Why I’m writing this novel.

Not so that it’s good enough.

Not so that people will like it. Give it 5 star reviews. Tell all their friends about it. (Although those are nice things).

Or to build a career for myself. Prove that “Christian” fiction doesn’t have to be blah, blech, blerg.

I’m writing this book so that God can be glorified.

That’s it.

So, with my cheek smooshed up against my pillow, I prayed a tiny little prayer…

“Please help me write this novel.”

If God could split a whole sea in half, cause the sun to stand still in the sky, and all the other REALLY big things He’s done…well…I suppose He’ll have no trouble helping me with this little novel.

How about you? What do you need His help with?