Recently I missed four weeks of my dedicated writing time due to travel and the busyness of transitioning into summer, and I’ve had a difficult time getting back into it. There is something to be said for practicing the discipline of something, as being out of practice has caused my writing muscles to grow stiff and weak.
Even my private writing – those things I have no intention of posting – has suffered.
I think I’m not so interested in laying all my shit out there for everyone to read anymore, and I wonder if I’m going through a season in which I hold my cards closer to my chest. I have always made myself vulnerable and open on this blog, sharing all the ugliness as I muddle through it. But now, I feel like putting all that into words gives it too much power, and I don’t want it lording over me anymore.
I want to be hopeful and positive, but I wonder how to do this while remaining honest about the everyday struggle.
Stuff has happened in the last few weeks. I have fallen down, and gotten up. My marriage has been broken, and then mended again. I have been lost in the darkness, then found light again. I have hurt friends, and reconciled.
I just don’t know how to write about it anymore. Other things seem to be more important right now, like moving forward. The last two years I spent a lot of time looking backward, looking inward, and turning everything I knew about myself upside down. I’m a little burned out on psychoanalyzing, and have found much comfort in hearing the Truth and putting it into Action.
I will still show up at the wine bar every week to write, and I will still open up my laptop. Because, as Bryan points out to me on a regular basis, the difference between writers and non-writers is that writers write as a discipline, even when they don’t feel like it.