Being a Writer and Parent

I’ve been away from the endless skies of blank pages for some time. In my twenties I had something to prove—that I could be creative AND live on around 1K per month in a charming neighborhood…even if it was Spokane, Washington and not New York City or Los Angeles. I could write an entire novel while working at a chocolate shop and doing theatre on any stage that would cast me, paid or unpaid…FOR. THE. LOVE.

In my early 30’s I wrote another two books because I wanted to create something beautiful and witchy and soulful…and because I had time since I was not raising children, nor married, just singularly ME.

And then I walked across Spain on an ancient pilgrimage. I was channeling my inner Shirley McClain and had dared the universe to “Show me the next chapter of my life” since I had only planned out what to do with my life until the age of 30…at which point I guessed I would die, but that is a story for another time.

On this walk across the Iberian peninsula, I fell in love with a Danish folk singer who carried a guitalele and taught me old American union songs that we bellowed across the meseta as we walked mile after windy mile. He was 10 years younger than me and had a girlfriend back home whom he had written a love song for that I quickly memorized and could not get out of my head due to its clear harmonies and compelling hook. However, my love went unrequited, so I fell in love with the next Dane I met, who only happened to be seven years younger than me, but it was clearly fate, so of course we moved onto his sailboat after completing the Camino and instead of breaking up with him, we got pregnant and I had my son 11 months after our meeting on a blustery trail in Spain.

Writing my own name after having my son was hard, let alone writing something of significant length or complex theme. By way of example, I’ve been typing this post for exactly 10 minutes and just had  an Ancient Civilizations game card get thrown into my lap along with a demand to “Play mommy!!”

 This will be a short post.

All of this preamble to say, I miss writing. I miss quieting Time and just letting words visit the page through my fingers. I miss the easy camaraderie of knowing exactly what my job is when I show up knocking at the door of sound and syllable. It’s still here, I just need to be patient and relentless.  


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