Once more life has crept in and piled stones on top of my muse. As she has been unable to breathe, the words dried up. I am working to lift off the stones but it is hard going, and people who claim to be helping are piling more stones on the pile faster than I can remove them. We’ll get there, dear readers. And then enjoyable stories will flow freely once more.
I need the stories to flow because, frankly, not having my own source of income has reached an untenable point. I have mentioned it before, but sometimes I just want to provide things for my children without having to ask, beg, or get a second or third opinion that agrees with mine and comes with a different degree than the two I possess.
I have a BS in French and a BS in International Business. The university I received them from was accredited for both at the time of my graduation. I’ll spare you my disappointment with recent curriculum changes. But neither of those degrees was as industriously earned as the unofficial one I get every day in the trenches of motherhood and marriage. So trust me when I say that I have the best interests of my children at heart and I think about them all of the time. If I happen to forget, they invite me to cuddle them to sleep or allow me to pull them into my coat as we huddle at the bus stop in the freezing cold. If I have reached a conclusion regarding those tiny suns that I orbit, it isn’t a whim or a fancy, a lot of thought and planning went into my decision.
As previously alluded, November proved a dry month for my musings. Did you notice? I did but I couldn’t force out subpar writing and pass it off as worth the price of admission. So some feelings bled out in poetry and radio silence took hold here for a bit, but I am trying to rally. After all, I used to think I could write 50,000 words every November between family engagements and being high on pie.
The demise of Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) hit some of us a little harder than expected. Yes, we could still write but where were our comrades in the fight against that blank page? I feel disconnected from my writer friends. Was it COVID? Was it discovering part of my heart wandering around outside my body and needing mama’s love and attention? Maybe?
Maybe I need to rebuild some severed connections with people who get me and value my opinion and share my love for words and weird and wild and wonderful. Why do we let ourselves get disconnected? Why do we let our loved ones become less of who we fell in love with?
I’m all questions, so perhaps I should wrap this up and go answer questions my writing pieces have been asking for months now. Cheer me on!
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