Truth is, I’m mired in the worst writer’s block I’ve ever encountered. First, I was just taking a month off. Just a simple one month break. Thirty days post-graduation to catch-up with my family. I suppose it all began as some lame attempt to assuage the guilt that had built up over two years of placing grad school deadlines before my children. But somehow, that August break crept into September, bled into October, and has now begun to ooze into November. The Break grows increasingly vile by the day, slowly morphing into an insidious hole that now threatens to erase my very need to write.
In September, I wrote just one rough piece. Something I hastily cranked out in order to meet the deadline imposed by my writers group. A group composed of my amazingly talented friends. These are the people who have, over the past two years, become some of the best friends I have ever made. They are people who are actually doing something with their talent, like Penny Guisinger whose amazing work appears here, and Kerri Dieffenwierth whose fabulous words have been published here.
Truth is, despite the insightful (and patient) comments of my highly respected peers, I haven’t revisited that rough piece I submitted since we met via Skype a month and half ago.
Excuses don’t excuse my lack of inspiration.
Truth is, I have a memoir that is 90% finished and I’ve been too chicken shit to finish my book proposal. I’m in full avoidance.
I’ve been home pre-schooling Kate this year. Mostly because the cooperative preschool we belonged to for nearly four years turned out to be rather uncooperative and less parent-run than I’d come to expect.
So I’ve been focusing on things like kindergarten readiness and dance classes to make up for Kate’s lack of social interaction. Because things like boogers and dancing are important to my youngest child’s development. Right?
Then there’s that yearly Halloween party… the one that helps me avoid what I’m supposed to be doing by assembling things like this:
And by making these:
The worst part? I feel like I’ve lost my funny. Mostly because I’ve been mired in writing a memoir for two years and it covers some rather un-funny personal history. These days, I find myself over-thinking what used to be silly blog posts.
So instead, I’ve been doing important things, like sitting on a king-sized bed piled high with laundry and watching the Kardashians. Because someone has to commiserate with poor Khloe and her camel toe, right? Gravity sucks, man.
I’ve been avoiding things like submitting my work to journals or contacting Word Portland, a local event created by Emily Young, a fellow Stonecoaster, that would allow me to read my work at a really cool public venue.
So this blog post is my official return to silly parenting horrors, random thoughts, and my commitment to writing something. Anything. This is me forcing myself to get off my ass and write.
And it feels good.