If you’re a writer, you can’t stop writing. You just can’t. If you do, the words build up inside like some kind of mental log jam.
You get a little cranky. A little jittery. Sentences bounce around in your skull. Word pictures bloom unexpectedly. And it all becomes a chaotic mess that you can’t quite fit together in a sensible way.
At least that’s the way I am. And what I’m dealing with today.
I haven’t written here, in this place that has always been a sacred part of my daily routine, for an entire week. And let’s face it. It’s been a long time since I’ve posted regularly.
That’s not entirely a bad thing. While I haven’t been writing, I’ve been out living.
I celebrated my baby girl’s third birthday—and managed not to shed a single tear (at least where anyone could see me).
I planned—and cancelled—a birthday party at the park (but that’s a story deserving of its own post).
I’ve done approximately 20 million loads of laundry and made a good start on conquering the eternal mess that is my home (but that is also a story worthy of its own post).
I made my first Easter dinner. Pretty much on my own. Me. The girl who’s always said she couldn’t cook. And you know what? It didn’t suck (another post? yes.).
I quit one job and accepted another (but I won’t write about that yet. Don’t want to jinx things. You understand).
I’ve gotten into a treadmill routine, and am slowly but surely remembering the joy that moving your body brings.
I’ve played on playgrounds, built a playhouse and spent lots of time looking at a certain little girl’s gorgeous smile.
But my fingers are itchy. I need to be here. I need to write here. I need to fit writing into living.
I need to write. Even when the words are jumbled up messes.
That’s what a writer does.
Proudly linking up to Just Write.