I used to write- plays, poetry, short stories, analytical essays. Somewhere along the line, I stopped. Just stopped. No tapering, no slowing to a trickle- just stopped.
I used to have an online diary in which I would chronicle my most mundane of data. The petty, small-minded, drama-seeking trash-pot in which I deposited my negative emotions in an effort to purge myself and start fresh. I stopped that, too.
Was it that I found no need to express myself through writing, anymore? Did I have nothing to write about? Where did my muse go?
It seems like I have nothing to write about when I have no conflict in my life. Readers, would anyone watch a play about a suburban housewife battling to find the best bread recipe or charging blindly into crafts, her faithful husband and beautiful baby as near-constant companions? Maybe you would. Maybe I would.
I had some vague dreams when I was younger- fuzzy life goals. I wanted to become a wonderful songstress and harmonize perfectly every time. I wanted to learn French and play guitar. I wanted to find love and happiness. Writing wasn't a goal, it was a given. Writing seemed as essential to me as breathing.
I have lost my voice. I haven't learned French or taken up the guitar. I DID find love. I found great happiness. Instead of the sprawling scrawl of my pen, my daughter's babbling accompanies the clickety-clack of my keyboard. And my husband? He cares for me possibly more than for himself. I am happy.
Writing must be like water. It will fit in the cracks left after the large- and medium-sized life events. I cannot promise to write a page here on a regular basis. The best that I can do is promise that I will come here to relax. I will come to converse with you in the safe silence that this blank canvas will provide. Perhaps I'll write poetry, plays, short stories. Maybe I'll chronicle some of the many projects that I have undertaken since last I have written. I don't know.
I do know that I will continue chasing my paradise with my beautiful little family. And that's all I can do.