I used to be a writer

I used to be a writer. Don’t get excited. I was no Hemingway or Shakespeare or even Stephen King. But I wrote for a living (albeit a meager one), and I liked it. I even wrote for fun, about interesting places and experiences, and I liked that too.

And then I adopted a little boy, and the time and energy I had to write diminished. And then the economy went south, and my employers diminished as well. And then I had a baby, and I stopped writing altogether. No more stories for magazines, no more blogs, not even any more emails.

It’s been more than a year since I published anything, and now when people ask me (out of interest or to make conversation) if I have been writing, I cringe when I have to say no. Partly because I feel I should be a Productive Member of Society instead of a Stay-at-Home Mom, but mostly because writing was something I loved, and I miss it.

I have all kinds of excuses: my baby is always on the move, and my son is a dervish of energy. I have no money for day care, and I have no time to write because I have to make sure my daughter isn’t climbing the stairs or licking power strips. When she is sleeping, my son is usually home, and he wants me to play baseball with him or watch him play baseball or ride his bike or run around. There are doctor’s appointments and vet’s appointments and things to buy at the supermarket and books to return to the library, and sometimes, naps with the baby because I am so tired I think I am going to just drop dead.

I still don’t have any time to freelance. In that case, it turns out that since I am too poor for day care, I am too poor to write professionally. Who knew? But I am going to try to start a little blog about my little life so that I can do a little writing so that my brain and my heart don’t wither and die. It won’t be exciting, and the posts may not be frequent. But here it is.