Hello. Hey. Hi. What's up? Head nod.
I've had three different conversations lately where the question was asked "do you write anymore?"
The short answer is no. The long answer is still no but with a lot more excuses. I write to do lists, weekly menu plans, shopping lists, and irritatingly long instagram posts. Meanwhile in my head all the real words just sit and not just collect dust, but ingest it somehow. So in the rare occasion I try to express anything, the words just sputter and choke.
I told Jon my life was too happy to write. Like a certain amount of tragedy could be useful or inspiring. But there's also the fear that maybe if I did write, allow the words to piece together all these thoughts and feelings, I'd find out I'm not as happy as I thought I was. Maybe not saying anything at all has kept me from feeling what's really there.
A year ago, shortly after Cordelia was born, Jon sent me a text saying "remember this?" with a picture of me holding the journal a story of mine was published in. Facebook had told him that three years ago this event had happened, his wife had published something. I think his text was meant to be inspiring or at the least not cause me to spiral down to a deep abyss of sadness. There I was holding my newborn baby, wreaking of spit up and bleeding into basically a diaper and thinking about the life I used to live. That's not to say I used to live a life of writing and publications, all fancy fance and important. But I did for a small two semester moment, live a life with a voice and confirmation of abilities I hoped to posses.
I hate reading the bright and shiny version of people's lives. So many blogs and instagram accounts tell of only the best parts, making you wonder how much they edit their lives. Or worse, "why isn't my life like theirs?" That's not to say I particularly enjoy reading or hearing about people's complaints or woes of life. But there's a certain amount of reality that's missing, of truth. All the neatly tied up stories, a few complaints glossed over and sweetened by the realization of something grand and wonderful about life. To be honest I rarely have those grand realizations. Sometimes my two year old breaking down about wanting to stay in her pajamas or my baby's sudden discovery of purposefully dropping food off her tray is just that; infuriating and exhausting. But I have to believe that it's ok and that other braless moms going on their 4th cookie of the day exist out there. And that their house isn't tidy and there isn't a teepee in the corner of their child's bare nursery.
So I guess I'm going to be a reverse hipster and blog after it was cool. I'm not going to edit. And I'm not going to pretend I will be in anyway consistent with this. But here's to a small effort at dusted off words and writing.