I really want to post more frequently on here, but I hate posting for the sake of posting, too. I know readers want fresh content, but I highly doubt they want random junk.
I’m not that interesting. The Pioneer Woman can post random junk and it’s fascinating. I cannot.
If you could look in my drafts folder, you’d see a bunch of posts I’ve started that ended up being crap. It’s extremely frustrating. I knew I was rusty, but I didn’t know exactly how rusty I was.
For those of you who don’t know my history, you should know that at one time, not too long ago actually, I had aspirations to get my MFA in Creative Non-Fiction. I took a CNF class in college and absolutely fell in love with the craft. I was so surprised and pleased to discover that what I wrote in my many journals and on my xanga and livejournal (back in the day, folks) was actually a thing. It was not only a way I could figure out the world and my messed up brain and heart but also a craft I could work on and make pretty. It could be art.
It was something I just did naturally, writing, and it took me a long time to realize that not everyone can just sit down and write. The ability to put thoughts on paper, string sentences together, was not something everyone could do. It really was a gift I had, and it deserved to be honed.
Well, when it came down to it we discovered that we couldn’t afford to go to graduate school, even if they did pay for me to go, so I got a job and eventually got knocked up and started a family. And those dreams of the writing life sort of died.
But recently — recently — that desire to write, and be good at it, has been re-ignited. I think it has something to do with the sleep-deprivation being so much less severe.
So, anyway, you’ll forgive me for not posting as much as I’d like. I’m writing — I’m just rusty. I have moments where that effortlessness that writing was for me in college comes back, just for a second. I think athletes would describe it as being “in the zone.” I think writers call it “finding their voice.” I’m finding mine again. It’s a different voice — a mother’s voice. But it’s there. And soon I will share it with you.