I haven’t written since April. That’s way too long. And I mean, I haven’t written a single thing. I haven’t journaled. I haven’t even started (and then not finished) blog posts. Honestly, the only thing I’ve written in that time is weekly notes in my pregnancy journal. That’s right. In the time I’ve not been writing, I got knocked up…something I’ve been hoping to be for a long time. And I haven’t written a tiny, solitary thing about it! That’s embarrassing for someone who fancies herself a writer.
I’ve lost some of the motivation to write, to be fair. And by “motivation,” I mean “drama.” It’s a lot easier to find things to write about when my life is in upheaval. And for several years, my life was certainly that. Now? It’s settled down. I won’t have to move again for another two and a half years which is a welcome thing after having moved something like seven times in two years. It’s nice to sit down somewhere and feel like it’s home.
Last week, I experienced one of life’s great joys when I talked to a girl friend for over an hour, someone I haven’t talked with at length since before I moved away from Denver. Sometimes, there really is no thing more refreshing than catching up, laughing, crying, heart-to-hearting, and scheming with someone who just gets it. And she and I, man, can we do all those things…and we do them well! Specifically the scheming and laughing bits.
It was in that conversation that we were reminded that we are good writers. We’re actually very good writers. So what are we doing not writing? Between the lack of “drama” (read: available things to bitch about) or the increasing need for privacy, there just isn’t a whole lot motivating either of us to write. Except maybe each other.
I told my friend that I miss writing. I miss creating. I miss using my words. I want to write (and in an ideal world, I’d get paid to do that) and I want to inspire and provoke. I hate the feeling that my brain is atrophying. Often, I find myself struggling to find the right word (I couldn’t come up with “deviant” a few weeks ago and it was infuriating) and I’m not one that’s normally at a loss for words. But at the same time, I told her, I don’t want to be a “mommy blogger.” There are plenty of those out there and most of them are damn good at what they do. But the market is saturated with mommy bloggers (I can direct you to several good ones, if you’re interested). And beyond that – and here’s where I might lose people – I don’t want my life to be only about my children.
I’m excited more than I probably let on about being a mommy at the end of the year (though I’m scared sh*tless of actually getting the baby here). I can’t wait to breastfeed and change diapers and wake up at all hours of the night and read stories and teach them how to bake and cook and bring them to visit Daddy in the hangar and cart them around the world for the next fifteen years of our Navy life. But I need my children to know that I am me. I need them to know that my world doesn’t revolve around them. It revolves around no person, including me. I want to teach them that individualism is important and doing your own thing holds significant value. I want them to know that I am a writer, a singer, a baker, AND a mommy. And maybe, most importantly, I am their daddy’s wife and partner.
So with that, there could be something very exciting coming up for me. Something that gets my brain revving and will likely rattle my emotions in new ways. There’s nothing really of substance to talk about regarding this right now so suffice it to say…something this way comes.