The Contemplations of a Lost Writer

As a young adult, I had a personal motto. Basically, if an opportunity arose, I would carefully consider whether it was something I truly wanted to do. If the situation in question scared me, or the amount of work deterred me, or I just had a general dislike for the task, I often found myself doing it. “Rose, if you don’t want to do this, you probably should,” I’d tell myself. Admittedly, I found myself in some pretty uncomfortable situations. (The one that particularly comes to mind is the time I agreed to step in and teach a Business English class for mature ESL students at the local college, only to find that they also wanted me to develop/invent the course.) The foolishness of youth, maybe?

Sometimes I look back on those days and shake my head. I no longer feel compelled to do odd and uncomfortable things, solely for the potential character growth. But I do think that young Rose might have been onto something. These last few years, I’ve really let my writing go. Perhaps you’ve noticed that my blog has seemed conspicuously quiet. So it has. Apathy is the great killer of creativity.

So, here I sit, ignoring the mountain of carrots that need to be washed, the laundry that needs folding, and the floor that needs sweeping, halfheartedly typing away, hoping to slough off some of the rust.

Writing is my first love. I love words. They have such a magical, musical allure. I love how certain phrases serve to transport one to past moments and memories yet still have the power to drive one forward. As a child, I always wrote stories. Terrible, melodramatic stories, but still I wrote. Somehow, that has changed.

What is it about the beautiful, mystical drudgery of motherhood that makes it so difficult to put pen to paper? There should be countless moments of inspiration, considering the events of a typical day. You want drama? I give you the toddler melt-down. Suspense? The child that escapes through the window, unbeknownst to anyone, and decides to adventure alone. Tenderness? The baby who kisses your eyes while you cry. Sadness and frustration? Sick livestock fit that bill.

Yet, somehow, the words do not flow.

And I think I know why.

It’s easier not to write. It’s easier to exchange one’s soul for the relief of the mindless repetition of familiar routines designed for comfort.

Perhaps there is wisdom in doing the uncomfortable.

Perhaps?

Undoubtedly.

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