For a while after I had my baby, I was okay with not writing.
After a few months, I felt I should be able to get in a few hundred words a day, but I couldn’t. I felt lazy. Writers write every day. That’s what makes them writers. This maxim mocked me, making me feel even worse and lazier. I’ve always thought of myself as a writer. Who was I if I wasn’t a writer?
I started to think: maybe I wasn’t meant to be a writer. Maybe I was just meant to be a crocheter, reader, and Facebook-scroller. So I applied myself whole-heartedly to those tasks.
Weeks went by. I crocheted feverishly (during naps). My projects earned me admiration from friends and strangers. It feels nice to be praised. To say, “Yes, I did,” when someone asks, “Did someone make that for your baby?”
But it’s just not quite satisfying enough for me.
I kept thinking about my story. About the characters, their struggles, thoughts, fears, friendships. Now and then I did some more research on birds and gliding. And two weeks ago I got back to work, not because I needed to “be a writer,” but because I love my stories. I’ve never been one to write “every day” (except during NaNoWriMo-induced frenzies and one crazy summer), but you know what? I think that’s ok. For me. For now.
How many times do I have to learn that it’s all about balance?
‘Till it sticks, I guess