My head is full.
Ideas for posts. Characters. Recipes my two year old might eat.
The To Do List that never ends.
The problem is the writing thoughts are stuck, a horrible case of brain constipation with no sign of release.
Last summer, I dreamed of the coming “free time” this fall would bring me with my children both attending a Mother’s/Parent’s Day Out program.
I envisioned writing.
I hoped to do NaNoWriMo.
I pictured a perfect house, completely organized by October.
You can stop laughing any time.
Like the naive new parent who had no idea her newborn wouldn’t sleep unless being held (uh, me), I had no concept of how quickly three and half hours passes by when my children aren’t around.
I do now.
And I want to cry.
I’m pretty sure it hormones. And worry about my friend. And sleep deprivation. And dashed expectations. And skipping too many Zumba classes to get stuff done while the kids are away. And not showering enough.
But mostly, it’s when I try to write, everything churned onto the screen is flat with a bad aftertaste – sort of like a can of soda pop left sitting out too long.
Maybe my inner voice is just too loud.
I don’t know.
I just miss writing. Real writing. The feeling that washes over me when the words I type feel “right”. When my fingers clack away and I don’t even have to think about what I’m doing. When I’m in The Zone.
It’s been a month since I’ve hit The Zone.
A part of me wonders if it will ever come back.
I keep writing, waiting for the magic. I know if I don’t at least try, it can’t return.
Embracing the irony it will probably be in the form of writing diarrhea….
Meanwhile, my children love to say things and all I have to do is transcribe it.
Plus I still have my camera to express what I cannot find the words to say.