Memoirous

First it was the eyes, then the surgeries, then the heat, now the Canadian wildfires—there’s always a reason to put things off and lay around the house reading or doing a craft. Taking a walk or a short bike ride through the woods, watching the sunset orange and mauve or rise all yokey in the morning. I make excuses to visit the garden to meditate over the cucumbers, kale, the tomatoes that stubbornly refuse to bear fruit. Anything. Everything except settle in to write. I had a check in the other day with a writer friend. This person is head and shoulders above me with her abilities and talents, yet—she told me she’s not writing and has no pans to at the moment. I asked if it was for a season or what?? She answered, I don’t know. She hadn’t made a decision to quit, only to stop feeling bad about not writing. It freaked me out. I can let things slide. I can take a break, but I can never stop thinking I should be writing. The voice inside my head, the devil on my shoulder: they’ve ...

 There was a time when I had so much to say, pages to write, stories to unfold. I’m struggling now to come up with two sentences. I had posts queued at Blogger. I wrote letters to the Editor, my senator, congressperson. I effected change. These days—there is this ennui, where I wonder: Will things always be this way. I feel robbed of words. A drifter picking through old bones, looking for a scrap. Where is the girl with too much on her mind, afraid to settle, unstoppable? Where have all the wild horses gone? Must get going, must move, must not stay here for long.

So what’s been happening? Well, there have been the edits on my new book coming out this fall. That was scary—until I finally opened the file and realized it wasn’t a deep hole. In fact, it was WAY easier than I thought it would be. I’ve actually been putting a lot of things off, thinking they might overwhelm me. I try to reason with myself. Overwhelming is not death. It isn’t forever. It’s scary, yes, but it shouldn’t be paralyzing. But it is/can be. Which is why I’m going to confess: I’ve been somewhat writer’s blocked. Of course, it might not seem like it with over a dozen publishing credits in the last year and the book contract. But most of this was previously generated material. The newest bits were also flashes, some as small as 50 words. It seemed I couldn’t get started. More than that my confidence level has been nil. Again all this seems the opposite of what one would be experiencing especially after what must be objectively considered a “good” ye...