Whelp. You say it’s not going to happen, but then it does. It creeps up on you, ever so slowly. One week you realize you haven’t made time to do what matters—what used to matter so much—and you brush it off. Eh. Next week. And then you start a new job. You fall in love and get married and spend your nights drinking wine and laughing (yes, that matters, too). You become pregnant and find yourself day dreaming of the little life growing inside you. Weekends get stuffed and squeezed and exhausted with painting walls, dinner parties, trips to Target; cleaning the closet, hanging lights, dealing with the dogs, running here and there. And then you realize.
Time has gone by, as it tends to do. And it’s been three years since you’ve written, just for the sheer pleasure of writing for you.
It was not too long ago that I would work late hours at the office in West LA and come home, bringing more work with me. I’d either make a simple dinner, solo, or grab take out. And hours after my roommate had slipped off to bed, and the apartment building hushed down—fitfully, like a toddler not wanting to go to bed for fear they’ll miss out on the mischievous Los Angeles night—I’d, too, crawled into bed, with my laptop to keep me warm. My beige-colored room and humble apartment would be quiet except for me and the hum of my little computer and my anxious fingers, straining to tap out all that I held all day long in my head and heart; and the occasional comforting creak of neighbors slipping into the bungalows across the way, with stories of their own.
Often, it would reach two or three in the morning before I shut the light.
You say it’s not going to happen, but then it does. When we knew we were bringing our sweet girl into this world, I fantasized about writing while she slept late at night and napped during the day. I pictured her in a swing next to me in our office, contentedly playing and cooing while I did my thing, too. Easy, no?
You say it’s not going to happen, but then it does. Coming home from a day at the office to a kid changes you. You want a peaceful house and sometimes that means doing the dishes and vacuuming at eleven p.m. It means cooking even if you don’t want to because, damn it, you’re going to have a family dinner tonight! It means sometimes saying “I’ll write later.”
You say it’s not going to happen, but then it does.
And so here I am. The baby is sleeping and I am a woman placing a stake into the ground. This is my line in the sand. I’m a mom. I’m a wife. I’m a marketer. I’m a friend. I’m a cook. I’m a reader. I’m a wannabe athlete. I’m a networker. I’m a tech dork. I’m a neighbor. And this is the year that I fight and reclaim a part of me that I somehow let fade away. It’s time I dust it off and find out how to write again. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to, and I’m approaching this with equal parts fear and eager anticipation. But here I am.
I’m a writer.