I have been unable to write for pleasure. It has been about four weeks now since I’ve written a coherent word that was personal or creative and served my own purposes. I’ve written a hundred work emails detailing an injured employees medical status and return to work strategies, but I haven’t written one sentence that caresses my imagination and drives me to smile.
I have reviewed my finances, planned the twins back to school wardrobe, written grocery shopping lists, called in prescription refills, attended parent-teacher meetings, helped my husband arrange for a out of town trip, swept the floors, moped the floors, washed dishes, prepared meals, washed hair, combed hair, dropped kids off at appointments, retrieved kids from appointments, and watched horrible television, yet I haven’t squeezed out a teardrop of imaginative writing.
This bout of writers block is further exacerbated with the obligations of young family life. Some days I wish for old age. I wish I was sixty years old and all the children are well adjusted grownups that still came by to visit but didn’t need me to prepare their meals anymore. I would be retired and free to sit in my home library reading and working on a project that I’ve promised my agent I’d have done by an impossible deadline.
That’s my little pipe dream; to be mature, creative, and published. I love my family life and I love my creative life. The reality is that family does come first. Shared human experiences help pad my creativity, feed my soul, and keep me healthy. We are here on earth to connect with one another and then write about it.