Last week was my first full week without writing in more than a year and a half, and it’s official. I’m a writer. One who writes. Published or not. Good or not.
I need to write.
My sanity swung shakily on rusty hinges all week. By Friday, I was teary at the drop of a hat and seriously plotting an escape from my life. Not permanently… of course. I love my girls and hubby and much of my life too much for that.
But last week, every spare second was swallowed up. Nap times, post bedtimes, and even Cassie’s cleverly effective dinner time escape. Every second was just gone, and I was beat. Without any time to siphon off a few words or thoughts or scenes, I was much worse off than I should have been.
Only a few days after my breakdown, after a few days of focused writing sessions and a little daydreaming, I feel fine again. Centered. Happy, even.
And now that I’ve reconnected with my story, the words are flying again. It’s fabulous. The writing may not be any good at all, but now I know that doesn’t matter as much as the fact that the words are flowing, the ideas are coming, and somehow, that is keeping me sane.
So I write.