with Mir Kamin
I'm a freelance writer and mother of two working from home, which theoretically means I can set my own schedule so as to best accommodate my family. In reality, "flexible hours" often equals "working too much." Yes, I'm my own boss; no, that doesn't mean life is easy. It's hard to leave the office when you live there. But I love what I do and feel very lucky. And not just because I get paid to work in my pajamas.
To learn more about Mir, check out her profile on Work It, Mom! or visit her blog at http://www.wouldashoulda.com/
Last week I stopped writing.
Not completely, of course. I have clients, I have contractual work to deliver. I continued writing where I had to. I continued writing about the things that matter less to me; stuff that has nothing to do with how I’m feeling or what I’m thinking.
For almost eight years I’ve maintained a personal blog, and it’s been my refuge to work out my talky impulses when it comes to sorting through things. That blog has seen me through the majority of my kids’ lives (and trials and tribulations therein), several romantic relationships (and lack thereof), remarriage, relocation, everything. Everything. Before that, I journaled. For most of my life. Writing about my life has been central to my existence for a long time.
And last week I looked at the “New Post” screen and just couldn’t do it.
I ended up writing a (rather vague and lame, I’m afraid) quick post to say I’d be taking a break, and then I walked away.
For eight years I’ve not had a problem balancing between sharing my life and maintaining boundaries where necessary. Not that I’ve been perfect at it, of course, but it’s something I’ve felt comfortable navigating. And I’ve always felt like I “needed” to write. It helps me work through things. It’s part of who I am, or at least who I’ve always thought I am.
I’m not saying I won’t go back to personal blogging, once the hurdle currently in front of me is cleared. Logically, intellectually, I think I probably will.
But for the first time in a really, really long time, the impulse to write is just… gone. It’s not that I want to write and can’t, or feel like I shouldn’t. It’s that I don’t want to. At all.
That’s… weird. A little scary. I imagine discovering that part of your body is paralyzed is similarly alarming. Like, “But I used to be able to use this arm just fine. Now it’s useless. How did that happen?” (It occurs to me that this metaphor is probably hugely offensive to, say, someone who’s actually experiencing paralysis. My apologies. It’s the closest thing I could think of to describe how it feels, and no, I do not think the loss of my impulse to write is truly as awful as a paralyzed limb.)
The stuff I continue to write feels flat, to me. (Hello, inept metaphor! Just for example.) I’m on autopilot. I’m waiting to feel like my old self, again.
But I would be lying if I said that a small part of me isn’t wondering if this is permanent… and what that would mean if it is.
Subscribe to blog via RSS