I don't spend as much time writing as I used to.
There is a part of me that feels empty when I don't write. A void where the ghosts of projects past float suspended in the middle of a scene, echoing bits of dialogue, beckoning with promising ideas that I deflect to the back of my mind.
There is a part of me that is full though. I wrangle two boys after a full day of teaching and meetings, occasionally land next to my husband for a quick check in before falling into a book, Netflix, or bed. It is a happy sort of busy with karate classes and math workbooks and library visits.
I'm also partly distracted. In between these few words I've shuffled a child out of the shower, let the dog out, listened to a child read 1.5 easy readers, and played two card games.
So I wonder if the authentic me needs those words on a page, the character notes scrawled on scrap paper as I'm falling asleep, the plot twists added to the bottom of a grocery list as I wait at the light. And maybe I'm afraid that the delicate balance of keeping it all going my be tipped if I light up the void, let out my old friends for new adventures.
But maybe I need a little faith that this gnawing in my soul for stories is real and right. That's why my Lenten commitment this year is not to fast, but to feast on my own creativity and see where it all leads.
