Recently I have had this niggling desire to write. It has been a niggling desire that I have
hushed up with social media, Food Network, and Utz potato chips. If I am
honest, I have been unmotivated to empower my writing self because I am
afraid. I am afraid that I do not have
anything new or relevant to say.
Additionally I have realized that most of my obsessive thoughts spiral
around my children, and, as they grow older, I do not feel as though I have
permission to write publicly about their experiences. Sharing an anecdote about the cute thing your
three year old did at the park is completely different from venting about your
fourteen year old’s friend drama. (I was
recently mortified when I read a blog in which a mother had written in detail
about her daughter’s experience with puberty along with a self-congratulatory description
of all the cute things she had done as a mother to make her daughter’s first
period a “special celebration”. Could
you just die?)
All of that being said, that niggling voice still calls out
to me regularly. Most often, it clears its throat while I’m in the shower. While I’m waiting for the conditioner to
work, I mentally fuss about with a few different opening sentences. By the time my feet hit the bath mat, I
discover that some kid at my house has gotten into some summertime shenanigans,
and any in-process word constructions dissolve like sugar cubes on a
hyperactive five-year-old’s tongue.
Here in sunny North Carolina I find it much easier to cut
myself some slack. When our family lived
up in Michigan, I had to be very mindful about my behaviors and habits. In order to combat my weather-related
seasonal depression, I forced myself to write, exercise, and interact with
other humans. On many days, I had to
force myself to crawl out of bed and stay out. Here there is no need for such
discipline. I am energized and ecstatic
when I accomplish a lot in a day, and I am content when I do nothing but feed
my kids cereal and play Old Maid on the front porch. It’s all good.
However, it probably isn’t ALL good. I’ve been very sluggish when it comes to
making new friends and committing to anything.
I have only plonked my behind in this chair to write one other time this
year. I’ve been stoned on sunshine and
the indescribable euphoria that accompanies seeing one’s childhood home with
different eyes. Instead of inspiring
creativity and any sense of urgency, I feel like the embodiment of a Southern
drawl, slowly and contentedly oozing through the days.
No longer needing a rigid checklist of things to do, I feel
a little lost--happy, but lost.
Somewhere between Michigan and North Carolina, there is a happy
medium. I’ll update you in six months
and let you know if I’ve found it.
