Fear of Writing
A couple nights ago, I had a massive meltdown about how much I missed writing.
So write, T said.
But how can I possibly fit writing into my life again? I need space, and time. I need time to breathe, to think, to be present with myself.
I don't have time for that. We've started Healing House, now Petalouda House (a name I'll have to explain in another post sometime in the future). We've got two challenging full-time tenants (my daughter S and one other person, whom we'll call H), and a handful of part-timers who come and go, ranging in age from 10 to 25. It's what I always wanted. But, I can't do it if I've lost myself.
And then, there's the job. Always new challenges. Always new projects, new ideas, new things that go right, and wrong.
And then, there are the day in, day out stressors of continuing, still, to unpack, to make this space our own, to figure out how to pay the bills, keep the old house rented, keep planning for the future.
And--and this I did not expect--the constant, overwhelming pressure of keeping a marriage healthy and alive.
So stop talking about how you can't do it and just do it, T said. You figured out a way to get a half hour of spiritual time in every morning, and a half hour workout. And to change your eating habits. Of course you can do this, too.
You don't understand, I said. I need more time. A lot of time. I'm not a writer anymore. The one thing I enjoy most, the one thing most likely to keep me healthy and sane, I gave up. I can't just get it back in a half hour a day.
I was sobbing.
Well. A little time is better than no time.
We agreed, finally, on a half hour a night. T will hold me accountable. I'll hold myself accountable. I can't complain if I don't take it. It isn't much--not enough time, really, to fully wrap my mind and heart around the characters in a much-too-long-ago abandoned novel, or to obsess as I want to do on every line of a poem I'm revising, or to write a good essay, or even a good blog post.
But, fuck it. I'm doing it. I'm starting small, a half hour a night, right after S is in bed but before I go through my own bedtime ritual.
Marriage is hard, a friend of mine wrote me, as if she could read my mind. Not knowing what you're feeling doesn't necessarily mean you're "having problems." There are all kinds of expectations you didn't expect to have before. Even if you're not consciously thinking of them, they're there. And so you do things you wouldn't normally do, or stop doing things you would do, normally. You make assumptions about what the other person needs or wouldn't put up with, and go with those. The key is, you just have to talk about it.
I have been mulling this over in the back of my mind for a few weeks, and I'm realizing, slowly, that she's right. Already, as it is, we have so little time together. I have so little time with S. It felt selfish to focus on...
You say you need it, though. And if you need it, you just have to take it.
My friend was right. Say it out loud, and it won't be a problem, won't feel so big. T gets it--or doesn't, but gets that I need this, and that I have to make some time and space. So, here I am, typing for the first time since August. Two nights ago, for the first time in a long time, I wrote a poem. Last night, I revised it. Just took my time--no pressure, no one needs to read it. Just did the work, let the words compile and shape themselves, let myself be their water-road, stream to river to sea.
Tonight I am typing here, beginning again in this space that has always been such a comfort to me, a place where I can be myself but also know that, once in awhile, someone is tuning in. Better than facebook, because I am more real here, and those who come are taking more time to get to know me.
If you're reading this, thank you. I'm back, and hopefully I will stay around now. Hopefully I can sustain this, one half hour at a time, guilt-free.
I think I'm afraid, but I don't know of what, I said the other night, during my meltdown.
Well, why don't you write about it, then, and figure it out?
But I'm afraid I've lost the quiet-centered-deep-attentive-writer-self, that she's gone forever.
That's dumb. She just needs to be invited back. Maybe she doesn't need as much attention as you think she does, at least, not right away. So give her what you have. Start there. And then, see what happens next.
So write, T said.
But how can I possibly fit writing into my life again? I need space, and time. I need time to breathe, to think, to be present with myself.
I don't have time for that. We've started Healing House, now Petalouda House (a name I'll have to explain in another post sometime in the future). We've got two challenging full-time tenants (my daughter S and one other person, whom we'll call H), and a handful of part-timers who come and go, ranging in age from 10 to 25. It's what I always wanted. But, I can't do it if I've lost myself.
And then, there's the job. Always new challenges. Always new projects, new ideas, new things that go right, and wrong.
And then, there are the day in, day out stressors of continuing, still, to unpack, to make this space our own, to figure out how to pay the bills, keep the old house rented, keep planning for the future.
And--and this I did not expect--the constant, overwhelming pressure of keeping a marriage healthy and alive.
So stop talking about how you can't do it and just do it, T said. You figured out a way to get a half hour of spiritual time in every morning, and a half hour workout. And to change your eating habits. Of course you can do this, too.
You don't understand, I said. I need more time. A lot of time. I'm not a writer anymore. The one thing I enjoy most, the one thing most likely to keep me healthy and sane, I gave up. I can't just get it back in a half hour a day.
I was sobbing.
Well. A little time is better than no time.
We agreed, finally, on a half hour a night. T will hold me accountable. I'll hold myself accountable. I can't complain if I don't take it. It isn't much--not enough time, really, to fully wrap my mind and heart around the characters in a much-too-long-ago abandoned novel, or to obsess as I want to do on every line of a poem I'm revising, or to write a good essay, or even a good blog post.
But, fuck it. I'm doing it. I'm starting small, a half hour a night, right after S is in bed but before I go through my own bedtime ritual.
Marriage is hard, a friend of mine wrote me, as if she could read my mind. Not knowing what you're feeling doesn't necessarily mean you're "having problems." There are all kinds of expectations you didn't expect to have before. Even if you're not consciously thinking of them, they're there. And so you do things you wouldn't normally do, or stop doing things you would do, normally. You make assumptions about what the other person needs or wouldn't put up with, and go with those. The key is, you just have to talk about it.
I have been mulling this over in the back of my mind for a few weeks, and I'm realizing, slowly, that she's right. Already, as it is, we have so little time together. I have so little time with S. It felt selfish to focus on...
You say you need it, though. And if you need it, you just have to take it.
My friend was right. Say it out loud, and it won't be a problem, won't feel so big. T gets it--or doesn't, but gets that I need this, and that I have to make some time and space. So, here I am, typing for the first time since August. Two nights ago, for the first time in a long time, I wrote a poem. Last night, I revised it. Just took my time--no pressure, no one needs to read it. Just did the work, let the words compile and shape themselves, let myself be their water-road, stream to river to sea.
Tonight I am typing here, beginning again in this space that has always been such a comfort to me, a place where I can be myself but also know that, once in awhile, someone is tuning in. Better than facebook, because I am more real here, and those who come are taking more time to get to know me.
If you're reading this, thank you. I'm back, and hopefully I will stay around now. Hopefully I can sustain this, one half hour at a time, guilt-free.
I think I'm afraid, but I don't know of what, I said the other night, during my meltdown.
Well, why don't you write about it, then, and figure it out?
But I'm afraid I've lost the quiet-centered-deep-attentive-writer-self, that she's gone forever.
That's dumb. She just needs to be invited back. Maybe she doesn't need as much attention as you think she does, at least, not right away. So give her what you have. Start there. And then, see what happens next.
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