Unraveled by Words

     Every month or two I end up taking a week or so off - by which I mean, not work on writing or extra housework for a couple days when I'm actually home. Usually it happens when something goes wrong, like last week, when I had the little bit of a tummy bug my loving hubby shared with me, and then didn't sleep for three days, thanks to feeling yucky and that dratted full moon. Or because there's just too much going on and my introverted soul is burnt out. Anyway, regardless the cause, I'm learning to accept it as a good thing, rather than beat myself up and feel guilty, which has always been my go-to response in the past. Instead I'll painstakingly pick out a new book or book series on Kindle and binge read. I used to find a TV series to watch, but I've found that that doesn't really do anything other than pass time. Reading renews my imagination and heals my heart like watching movies never could. And taking time out to do that is so refreshing and necessary.
     So last week, as I was saying, ended up being one of those recharging weeks, or part of it anyway. There were still a million projects going on, which have carried over into this week, keeping me way too busy for comfort. But in the in-between times I've been working my way through a new series I discovered: The Staff and the Sword by Patrick W. Carr. I just finished the last one yesterday.
     This has been one of those book series that picks up my world off its foundations and then shatters it. Every once in a while one of those will come along, and usually it's when I'm not expecting it. I read the description of the first book, A Cast of Stones, and nothing about it shouted "You will be destroyed!" but here I am, reeling and wondering what hit me.
     As a writer I can appreciate good writing, perhaps on a deeper level than most, since I understand what goes into it. As an intuitive personality type, where literally every thing I think about is connected to every other thing, all it takes at times is a spark of an idea to start that blaze going. Well, this book had more than a spark waiting for me. Its themes of sacrifice and service are so achingly and beautifully presented, over and over again, ideas and images and scenes building upon each other into a crescendo as sharp and powerful as a sword thrust... I think it has touched every area of thought for me, from life, to faith, to philosophy, to worldview, and more than anything else, my own writing. As if I'd been painting portraits with finger paints, and then one day someone showed me the work of Da Vinci or Michelangelo, and now suddenly I'm just like "What am I even doing here? I have no right to wield the tools of my craft."
     I suppose every once in a while it's good for a writer to be humbled. To find something to strive toward. There have been other authors and other books that have humbled me. But why does it at times have to feel like being undone? It's hard to pick myself up after one of those times and move on, when I feel like the meaning and the reason behind my own writing has been completely obliterated. It sends me seeking. Digging deeper. Crying while I drive or staring off into space until Hubby thinks I've finally lost it. In the end, I suppose, it makes me stronger. It makes me ask questions of myself, as a writer and as a person. It leaves me unsatisfied with myself, striving for more. Those are all good things, I guess. But my goodness, why's it have to feel like being a bug splattered on a windshield?