Life barreled over all of my well-built routines the last couple of weeks. Readying the house for showings and readying myself for Listen to Your Mother while trying to keep the kids on some tiny thread of their normal days meant everything I do for myself tumbled into a pile in the back of my head.
Running, story research, writing, character development, sleep.
All were set aside. I found myself missing them desperately, but I also realized how quickly rust can grow on those parts of ourselves we cultivate so carefully. Each night it became easier to ignore the moss growing on my blog, to leave my notebook in my tote bag for another day. My head was tired and filled with other things, and I slept as late as possible instead of crawling out of bed to run in the darkness.
But the rust is starting to stiffen my head and stiffen my mood, and I know part of the reason discontent is becoming commonplace is that I haven’t been taking any time to take care of myself and the things that help me distinguish myself between me and the role I play in the wheel of my household.
A few times last week I let myself fall into novels and pick up my pen to jot lines and stories and connections between characters in a story that consumed me for a while. I could feel the hesitation in my voice, not aloud, but the voice that dances from my head to the words on the page, and I know the inactivity has taken its toll.
This week I promised myself I would take time each day to write, even if it’s only for fifteen or twenty minutes, and by write I mean give life to the stories that still unfold behind my eyes when I take a few minutes to breathe. This promise feels a little self-indulgent, a little presumptuous, because I know that all writers are busy, that all writers have to struggle to fit writing into their lives.
But if you’ve found yourself putting writing at the low end of your to-do lists lately, play along with me and write a little each day this week. If you’ve been racking up words lately? Rock on, writers, rock on.
Do you ever get out of the practice of writing?
Have any of you seen what little remains of my mind?
