The New Year is already over a month old. I thought by now I'd be cranking out the blog posts, deep into a manuscript, involved with characters who are (almost) as real to me as my own children.
I have ideas. Lots of ideas. I sit down to write. I start writing . . . and after a little while it fizzles out. I look at it later and realize it wasn't any good. Which is okay. Or, it's good but I don't know what words come next. I have no idea what to put on the page after that.
My writing friend says it's because I spent so many years in 1860 with Sid and Rachel. Maybe.
I know that I need to nurture my creative self. And that's hard right now. Every day is full. Bursting with children to be fed and taught and nurtured. I already get up shortly after 5 am. I can't get up earlier. On Wednesday I wrote nonsense for a little while, but ultimately found it more satisfying to spend my alone time straightening up the house, vacuuming, washing dishes. You can see the results of that work right away. Even if it is completely undone in 24 hours.
I've been dragging my feet with an assignment I've given myself. Am I lazy? Is it not the right time?
Or is it what I learned years ago and that same friend reminded me of: I'm scared.
So I go back to the place I learned it. That book. And I read and think and make new resolutions. I remember the woman who gave me the book and I decide to pursue this thing.
It's hard to be creative in this season. I don't know the answer. I'm hoping to find it. Slowly, like a flower opening in spring. Right now it's all crunched in on itself. Tightly. Tensely holding on. But soon it will open to the sunlight, unfurling its petals and gracing the world with beauty once again.