There are great swaths of time that stretch between my entries. My entire life, my relationship to writing has been this way. I begin with momentum, inspiration, creativity… there is purpose and drive and excitement and it consumes me. I dream of blogs or short stories or flash fiction pieces or anonymous truths submitted to momentous publications. I begin something, off the cuff, because that’s how I write. I write fast, words pouring out, creativity and comfortability in my craft at its peak. And then, like it has been for years, I take a break or I find myself without direction. I’ve never been particularly gifted at plot. Life gets busy, I get tired, and suddenly the idea of writing seems like a slog through leg-sucking molasses. I’d rather just sit on the couch and watch TV. My brain feels about as creative as a stretch of flat, neglected road.
However, it nags. Writing has been one of my most honest passions since I was little. Being a writer is something I whisper in my head, in my bones, barely uttering the term out loud because it feels fraudulent on my lips. Like saying I’m some sort of prodigy or the next undiscovered artist. Instead, I say, “I write” because it feels much more accurate. I don’t even know how someone can write a book, really, writing something that long seems ludicrous to me. My favorite writers: N. K. Jemisin, Ursula K. Le Guin, the things they write, I could only dream of having that much talent. They, to me, exist on a completely different planet.
As far as my blog is concerned, I wanted to write about the honesty that comes with parenting: the triumphs and the tragedies, the truth behind this crazy endeavor creating a small human who you hope will bring something meaningful, original, and kind into this world. However, every time I sit down to write I feel like if I get into the stress of parenthood, it comes out as a whine or like I’m just getting caught up in negative thought. If I write about the trivial it feels uninteresting and singular. Much of the struggle with a parenting blog is the same struggle I have with writing in general. It feels as if the same ideas just get blustered back and forth. I feel a lack of originality in much of my work, due to the influence of those writers I admire, or the simple fact that basically every parent goes through what I’m going through at some point.
And yes, I know, the argument has been made by many people for many years: you cannot be original anymore. Every story arc has been done, every experience has been had.
I understand that true originality can only be had by writing with your voice, which is singular, which is unique. Yet! Just because anyone can write anything, doesn’t make it any good.
In my wildest dreams, I would like to write a book. In my reaching dreams, I hope to someday get published, somewhere, anywhere. I would like to be a writer, not just someone who writes.
I came here to write a post on all the things happening in my life right now:
- I’m pregnant with a little girl which excites and terrifies me in equal measure. I haven’t been able to really be present in this pregnancy because I’m mothering a toddler and a million other things are happening all at once.
- We’re selling our house, and hopefully buying our dream house, and consequently moving.
- Little Bear has started a parent-involved coop three days a week and today was his first solo drop off day which, to me, was an extremely big deal and I’m still reverberating with the experience from my end and from his.
- I have spent an entire day by myself out of my house (as it is being shown publicly all weekend) and have done things I used to do before I had my son and it has been incredible. I had a leisurely lunch and read my book, I went to the art museum, I went to my favorite book store, perused my favorite sections, and am now sitting in a coffee shop.
All of this. I came to write about all of this. But instead, I’m writing about writing, because it is a complicated relationship that has defined my creative self-image for years. I don’t have a plan, or an answer to my conundrum. I have about twenty books on the craft of writing but no progress has been made.
I’m not unaware that I have obstacles. A toddler is a creativity killer when it comes to productive hours of solitary writing time. By the time my kiddo has gone to bed, it’s already 7:30 and the dishes haven’t been washed, there’s toys everywhere, and I still need to eat dinner. Also, my husband is home and I want to spend time with him.
My favorite is when people suggest I just “get up earlier” so I can write before my family wakes up. Ha. Hahahaha. Hahahahahahahahaha. I should note, most people who suggest this to me are not parents. Someday, perhaps, they will be, and they will understand why saying that to someone with a toddler is hilarious. In the meantime, I just smile and nod my head politely while internally saying: DO YOU KNOW HOW TIRED I AM ALL THE TIME. SLEEP IS SACRED.
I will say, with the advent of my son heading to playschool, I will have two days a week in which there will be a four-hour chunk of time to myself. I can write during this time, and probably will. Yet, the fundamental problems I already outlined remain: I’m a great beginner, and a horrible finisher. As I get further into a piece of writing, the less ideas I have, the more scattered I become. I will be clinging to that mid-day chunk of time for as long as I have it, however. This baby is due September 3rd.
Anyway, today I bring you the plight of a wannabe creative, who has no answers, but sometimes just needs to pour her misgivings and turmoil into the universe without expecting any sort of reverberating return.
