It’s been two weeks since my kids went back to school and I haven’t written a word. This comes after a whole month of August of having them home, hanging around the house with incessant needs and demands: “I’m hungry!” “He took my ___!” “Is it screen time yet?”
Look, my kids are great. The summer was wonderful–we took a family trip to France at the beginning of July, then all three kids went to sleepaway camp and I spent those two weeks furiously writing, with the result that I FINISHED MY NOVEL DRAFT (yes, that demands capital letters). But since then: Nada. Nothing. I’m in a creative drought.
At this point, I’m going on seven weeks of no creative writing. That’s a ridiculously long dry spell for me–long enough that I’m starting to worry about it. What if the well has run dry? What if I’ve lost my touch? These days, I’m spending most of my energy on domestic tasks (Did the kids’ school forms get signed? Have their soccer uniforms been washed? What time’s the tutor coming? What are we having for dinner?) and frankly, there isn’t much left over for writing. It’s true that this is a particularly busy September, with my sons starting their first year of high school (!!) and preparing for their double Bar Mitzvah in October (which will be the cutest thing ever)… but I miss my creative side. That’s the part of me that feels the most real, in some ways. When I’m writing fiction, when I’m sucked into a story and playing with language to capture just the right word, that’s when I’m firing on all cylinders.
It’s not like I’m not writing ANYTHING at the moment. I’ve been putting together a grant application for a short story collection, which demands some pretty deep thinking. I’ve been rereading all my old stories, looking at themes that recur and finding ways to tie them all together. This is a challenging process, especially when my last few grant applications have all been denied. Still, I persist. Maybe this time I’ll get lucky.
I tried working on a short story last week, but the words wouldn’t flow. It feels like my mental gears have rusted up. How can I call myself a writer if I’m not writing? If I can’t write?
Next week, I’ll submit the grant app. Then there won’t be anything standing between me and the blank page. Or rather, the 300+ printed pages of my novel manuscript, which needs some serious revisions before I send it out to any agents or publishers. Will my writing instincts come back? Will the words start to trickle forth again? I hope so. Stay tuned.
Rebecca Morris 