Today, calling myself a writer feels deceptive. Oh...I miss it! The writing life. The sifting of words to replace the ordinary. The stretching of my brain into creative alleyways. That feeling, like no other, of stumbling down a path that alternates with smooth stones and unknown crevasses. I want it, all of it, and need it. But, for now, my writing life is sitting low. Sometimes it feels like it is just out of reach, patiently waiting for me, and other times it feels incredibly far away. As if that was another person entirely.
My writing muscles grow weak - my life taken over by The Must Do's, and my head cluttered with The To Do's. Creativity dying a dusty death somewhere nearby.
Words, like clothes, get old-fashioned, or mean and ridiculous, when they have been for some time laid aside —William Hazlitt
If I could have anything in my life at this moment, it would be the ability to do it all. The adjustment to working full-time has gone well, yet I feel overwhelmed...often. Perhaps, I have to accept that it is the perpetual state of one who works full-time, is a wife and mother, and who has some semblance of a writing career...on the side.
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