I’m a writer. Or at least that is what I call myself. So when the real world butts into my imaginary one and I can’t write, I feel awful. But I am not the kind of writer who can write THROUGH the stress. I have to wait for it to pass and then hope that my muse hasn’t deserted me. And most times, quite luckily, the muse comes backs with a quickness. I never really stop writing though. I’m always plotting, or building worlds in my head, but sometimes when the world starts closing in I stop being able to put it on paper (or computer screen as it were).
This happens more than I would like. In reality I probably only get to write about 15 days out of the month. Between house stuff, kid stuff, and then stress, sometimes spending an hour in front o the computer just isn’t realistic. And sometimes that hour when hard won is spent surfing pinterest for inspiration. I love the idea of the old school writer, spending the days drinking and pounding out words on a type writer (I have no idea why i go straight to Hemingway, i’m not even a fan). But in my reality as a writer, I write a few words then go make popcorn for the kids. Write a few more words then break to play don’t let the balloon touch the floor. Write a few more words then clean out the kitty litter (yep I’m the writer with a house full of cats.and I don’t even like most of them). And so it goes. So when I do get a chance to write, I have to remind myself that any writing is good. So long as I don’t ever stop fighting for that time to get the words that are in my head down.
I’ve been super stressed the past week. Zero writing, until yesterday. Yesterday I amazingly managed to get out an entire story for a picture book. Yet another story I’ll sit on cause I don’t know what to do with it. Here’s a few lines. It’s bittersweet, or as my 7 yr old daughter says, sad.
From all around, bees flocked to the proud privet tree.
Buzzing around in numbers too high to count.
They buzzed and danced among the limbs.
Drinking the nectar from the tiny white buds.
During those months the tree wasn’t lonely.