My life hasn’t been very writerly lately. Which is a bummer for blogging since my blog is supposed to be about my journey to get published.
But now that I’m thinking on it, I just need to make my non-writing more writerly. And I shall do it without my dashing, fedora-tipping facade.
Not writing daily makes me feel adrift. For so long I couldn’t separate myself from my book. It was the all encompassing, everything of my being. It would weave itself like fine threads through every few moments of my day. Bathrooms are the best, where else do you hide? Between meal prep for a dozen kids, diapers, outdoor play, reading and sing-a-longs I’d write notes on paper towels, my hands, my phone (if I could spare a few precious moments of bathroom time) and I would write, write, write. Compusive, tight knit, heavy with thought notes. My characters would have conversations in my head, blog posts would write themselves…Sigh.
I’m searching for that place again, searching desperately for those brief moments that spill words, carving them into my existance again because that’s what writing is. It’s essential. I’m a writer whether I’m writing or not because I want to be. It calls me and It’s there waiting for me when all the shit is sorted because I will it to be so.
And that feels writerly. Write on writers.
Self portrait: oil on canvas by me- writer, painter, soccer mom, kindergarten and 3rd grade mom, daycare provider, and stager and cleaner of house we are trying to sell at the worst time humanly possible so that our kids can have a backyard to play in.