“What did you do this week?”

I’m sitting here at my desk, typing a new blog post.

It’s five in the morning. I’ve already fed the baby once today. Tempting as it is to stay in bed, I want to be here in the dark, pre-dawn quiet. I probably don’t have it in me to add a scene to my draft. But there’s a business side to the writing projects I’ve got spinning, and anything that keeps my mind tracing familiar creative spheres is progress toward that ultimate goal, publishing a book.

I spend most of my time at home, nurturing children’s bodies and minds, guiding five precious souls toward a godly end. There’s a dog to be fed, meals to cook, spaces to tidy. I engage in small-scale gardening—a futile, sometimes-rewarding, often times frustrating effort. There are others who need me. Adult friends, family, church members. I need them too, no matter how introverted and bothered I feel about reaching beyond my small world to connect with them.

Then there’s this space. My corner of the house, overlooking the driveway and our street, tucked behind a grand piano and a couch, where I feel secluded and can enjoy minimal distraction. This is no cubical. I watch birds flit back and forth from my balcony where I’ve hung bird feeders. A green lizard has his own rituals—sunning, push-ups, showing off his red plume—a daily routine performed outside my window, same as me taking coffee and scripture at my desk. This is the space where I do some of my most arduous work, and I’m fortunate that, for me, writing never feels like a chore.

I don’t know how to talk to people about their workplace and career building. I’ve watched my husband doing it for years, but the corporate world remains a mystery to me. People don’t know how to talk to me either. They see my five children and ask the same few questions, nodding and smiling when I give the same few answers. I wish someone would ask me, “What did you do this week?” It’s a very ordinary, open-ended question. I need to use it when I’m talking with others too.

Anyhow, all that aside, I’ve been wondering of late whether I’d feel any different if I’d already published a book. Would I still feel miffed that people only see me as an overworked mom? Would I feel disappointed if they asked after my other activities only to nod and smile, politely changing the subject, when I mention I’m a published author?

The truth of it is, I don’t seek out my corner to write because I want people to notice me. I don’t sit at my desk all day wishing I didn’t have children either. The whole person that is me, is a person full of story. The story might be a lived compassion and practical need-meeting, it might be pointing a friend to the greater Story of unseen things. At the end of the day, all my work is about creating soul-nourishing stories, whether shared in my kitchen or in the privacy of a book I’ve written. None of this is about me. If a person doesn’t know I’m a writer after engaging in conversation with me, but they DO know I care about them, then I’ve been successful in communicating what’s most important to me.

I’m writing this post for myself, more than anything, so I won’t forget. But I also assume I’m not the only creative who struggles with this. Comments section is always open for discussion. Let me know if you’re an artist/writer/podcaster/blogger wishing you got asked about your art more often. How do you engage with this feeling of invisibility as an artist? I’d love to hear your thoughts.