You might’ve asked this question, maybe you never noticed, and that’s alright. I disappeared from the writing scene after my father’s passing. Don’t know why. It’s not like he was my editor or someone to bounce my ideas off of.
I ignored everything I ever learned in writing classes and workshops. “Write everyday.” “Write even when it’s shit.” “You do have something to say.”
It’s not like I was curled up in a fetal position. I’ve been functioning but I allowed painful experience to take over. Going from glass half full, to “hey, there’s no glass!” was a new point of view for me.
I started a ‘thankful’ journal, believing that if I at least wrote a couple of sentences everyday I might continue, and then ignored it. I bought fresh notebooks, believing they would inspire me, then I threw them in a drawer. Nothing clicked.
Finally, I just started writing. Just let the shit out so I could peel back the layers enough to let the words shine once again. So here I sit, in the reading nook in my bedroom, writing in a cute notebook. A marathon of The Walking Dead drones on in the background.
Occasionally I peek over the edge of the tray, I’m using as a desk, and note that the carpet needs to be vacuumed. And then my eyes return to my pen and paper.
Fuck the carpet. I’m in the mood to run out of ink. Not truly focused, but no longer at loose ends.