Shoelaces for Josie

But this time I didn’t. I couldn’t. This time has been different than the past few times I’ve taken a blog-vacation. The past few times, I knew all I needed was what I just described above. I knew I just needed to give my writing brain a rest so it could come back with renewed creativity. But this time…I fall asleep at work in the afternoons. Did you know that? I’ll be sitting at my computer working on very important, life-altering agricultural documents when I crash into slumber, waking myself up 10-15, sometimes 20 minutes later with an extra-loud snore and a puddle of drool on my shirt. I’m not narcoleptic, and while I’m probably not getting enough sleep for physical me, I believe my brain is also very tired. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually – it is as tired as I’ve ever seen it, I think, and I don’t know that even the most amazing set of washboard abs can make a dent in that.

So I stopped writing two weeks ago. I haven’t written a single word of anything remotely creative and non-work-related until this post. And you know what? I have not missed it. I haven’t missed writing. I haven’t had even a ghost of an urge to put words together or shuffle them around until they fit together just so. The fact that I haven’t missed writing frightens me – mainly because, up until this break, I’ve always felt like a part of me was gone when I wasn’t writing. Even when I was rearming myself with creativity, I missed writing, and I’d anxiously wait for when my insides were ready to jump back into an ocean filled with words.

What would I do if I didn’t want to write anymore? I mean, obviously Shoelaces would fall off by the wayside. Having a blog when you don’t want to write is a waste. But more so, how would I live if I didn’t want to write? I have hundreds and hundreds of pages of writing that I’ll never show a soul. I don’t even show them to myself. They are strictly off-limits. I started writing these pages six years ago when I was facing some very difficult times. Grammar, form, beautiful phrases and flow are not a part of these pages. They are raw, painfully honest and honestly true. They are all the thoughts and ideals, dreams and emotions that chase themselves around inside my head all day long. Writing them helps me escape from them; writing them is my release. And so I ask again, how would I live if I didn’t want to write? Spontaneous combustion isn’t how I want to go, folks.

And so I’m here today, because I was at a fork. I’ve always been the sort to move forward with decisions rather than sit on my haunches and wait for some magic droplet from the answering bag to fall on my head. I’ve been sitting at this fork for two weeks – not having the desire to keep writing but digging in my heels about any other alternative. I would still be sitting at that fork if I hadn’t realized that by sitting there, I was effectively moving closer and closer to the alternatives.