I’ve been taking a little break.
A few weeks ago I was “angst-ing out”. That is, I was getting increasingly frustrated by my desires and increasingly ill-equipped to satisfy them.
So, I put my ambitions aside. And I took a deep breath. I made granola. I cleaned the apartment. I ate ice cream and read a book.
During the day I sat in the middle of the carpet instead of in front of my computer. I read the books that were brought to me. I admired the drawings that were shown to me. I wrestled the little bodies that stepped too close to me.
Yesterday I spent forty-five minutes making a cardboard castle with lookout towers, shelves, and a gatehouse.
And today, for the first time since my last post, almost a week ago, I got out my computer. This promptly occurred:
My life would be much simpler if I did not need to write, if I did not wake up in the mornings with the story like a rash eating away at my brain demanding to be scratched. I would have nothing to do but be a mother and friend. My house would be the tiniest bit cleaner. Dinners would be the tiniest bit slower. And I think things would be a little more comfortable for my husband and kids. Things would certainly be more comfortable for me.
But today I woke up itchy. And so I dug out my computer from underneath the Lego ships on my dresser and established nap time firmly.
And now, I write.