Or rather, what I’m not writing. Careful, personal angst follows.Or maybe not angst, just revelation. You see, I’m not writing. Not really at all except for these weekly posts and the occasional posts for a paying gig. I have the time. I have the energy. I have the desire. I just haven’t got even the faintest whisper of imagination. I’m all out of inventiveness. There is no new character, setting, theme…for the first time in 10 years I’m developing a fear of the blank page.
I wouldn’t call it writer’s block. There isn’t something in here that is dying and trying to get out. There isn’t anything in here at all. No there, there. No here, here.
I’ve still got my two hours a week and I still use them to sit still and quiet, but generally I’m sewing or reading.
If I think about it, let my self sink down into the silence of my lack of imagination, it saddens me. But mostly I don’t think about it. I’ve got plenty else to do with my day, and I enjoy the sewing and reading, so it isn’t a loss right? I can’t tell if it is or isn’t. *insert heaving sigh here*
So that’s it. That’s the answer to the question. What am I writing now? Nothing.
I know that part of it is the work thing. At the end of my maternity leave, I decided to leave my comfortable paying job and “go freelance.” That was 7 months ago. Now my two paying clients have disappeared and the daily grind of convincing someone else to hire me is getting old. I enjoy being a freelance editor. I love the freedom and flexibility it gives me to manage my time, to spend on my house, to attend to my daughter without worrying about punching a clock or managing a manager. But as this drought continues, I start to second guess the decision to jump ship. Nothing for it now but to keep paddling and working and hoping, but I’m sure that the weight of joblessness is participating in my lack of creative output.
And of course, being a mother and wife and pouring my energy into my family adds up. I’m not exhausted by any stretch, I sleep and relax and have alone time and husband time in good amounts, but I have no idea how other people with young children manage to write or sing or produce. Whatever they’ve got that continues to churn out ideas, I just don’t seem to have it.
Eh. I wasn’t ever planning to fill my pocketbook with money from my writings. And I don’t have any feeling of soul death related to my fiction drought. So it’ll be alright, somehow. And if it won’t be, something will change. As my husband and I would say: