Reasons I Don't Write

Writing is always on my mind--I mean, I am an English teacher for crying out loud.  I am constantly observing life, making mental notes, analyzing other writing, and capturing images to draft about later.  But, rarely do any of these moments come to fruition.  But, why?

No Accountability
No due date.  No assignment.  No pressure.  No motivation.  I need to learn to set goals.

Too Much to Say
Once I do get writing, I am afraid I won't know when or how to stop.  The ideas and feelings will pour out of me.  There are so many things I want to write about.  Seriously.  I have lists of ideas.  But, I get too wrapped up in starting that I never actually start.

Nothing Unique to Write
My experiences and life--as a teacher, mom, wife, daughter--are not unique.  Everyone deals with these same struggles and celebrations.  I wonder what I have to offer to the conversation that has not been written before.  

Lack of Time
Or is it discipline?  I have not carved out space to make writing a priority.  It seems with each new life stage, I have to reimagine what this means.  While I try to get up before everyone else in the house to have some quite time, I'm not sure it's enough time.  Between reading, writing, exercising, and working, it is sometime easier to play a game on my iPad.

Easier to Read (or play a game on my iPad, or dink around on my phone)
Sometimes, I just want to escape from my life, not write about it.  On a positive note, I've read more this year than I have ever read before.

Can't Multitask When I Write
Writing requires my full attention.  For a girl who is a master multitasker, this is a hard sell.  When I watch a show, I can also be reading, working, coloring, or playing a game.  With writing, I have to give it my complete focus.

Worried about Oversharing
I am an open book.  I am honest to a fault.  However, I come from a family of introverts, so I am very aware of the desire for privacy.  What right do I have to take that privacy from those I write about?  Will my family/friends be embarrassed by what I share?  Where is the line?  What is the difference between their story and my story?

High Expectations
Self-inflicted, of course.  I think it is worse when I know I can do something and do it well.  Then I beat myself up over not doing it.

Out of Practice
My writing stamina is not what it used to be.  And yes, I know there is only one way to fix it.

Afraid of Vulnerability
This is the big one.  Writing makes me vulnerable.  It makes me breakdown my life and deal with the feelings.   Sometimes, especially during hard times, I just have to be strong to make it through the day.  And that means not recognizing how I feel.

Wordless Wednesday

Haunted by Emptiness

Mila moved to a new room and a new bed this weekend.  It was needed.  I felt so guilty every time I'd check on her, and she was hanging half off her bed.

I had been avoiding this move.  I thought it was because I didn't want my little baby to be in a big girl bed.  I thought it was because I didn't think I had time to make this switch.  I thought it was because I wanted new bedding, new furniture, and new paint in her new room.  I thought I it was because I wanted to make it perfect like her current room.

I slowly told myself these were unrealistic expectations.  Mila's nursery was a work in progress that took six months to complete.  I reassured myself that, in time, her new room would be just as perfect.

When she was half off her bed on Friday night, I knew it had to be this weekend.  I bought a super cute quilt.  I put Doug to work putting shelving in her closet.  We rearranged the bedroom to make sure the bed was against two walls.  We started clearing boxes we hadn't looked in since we had moved in four and a half years ago.  It was time.  I was as ready as I would ever be for Mila to be a new room.

Or so I thought.

I started searching for a new dresser for Mila's room.  I toyed with the idea of going to Homemakers and getting her a bedroom set.  I know it wasn't necessary.  I didn't have a bedroom set until I was married.  And we definitely can't afford the added expense now.  I clearly was trying to avoid something.

And then it hit me.  She didn't need a new dresser because no one else would be using the one in the nursery.  I realized this move didn't really have anything to do with Mila growing up.  It was about the empty nursery.

I am sick of being reminded that I am not pregnant.  Now, this one is a big gapping empty whole in my house constantly taunting me.

Office Oasis turned Playroom Paradise

One of the selling points for our house was the office with French doors.  Between that and the open layout of the first floor, I knew this had to be my home.

I envisioned an office oasis where I would write my first book.  I pictured myself there with the windows open hearing kids running around outside.  I would have a comfy reading nook in the corner to curl up in.  And I was slowing creating this:  A beautiful desk from Pottery Barn.  Two bookshelves.  A sitting chair, though not super comfortable.  But, if I'm honest with myself, most of my writing happens in the living room.  I rarely sit in the office as planned, so the room is not getting the use it could.

And, that is not the stage of life I am in.  I am a mom in the stage who desperate wants her house back from the invasion of toys.

Since Christmas, the inundation of toys creates anxiety and tripping hazards.  After a few days of mulling it over, we turned my beautiful office into a playroom paradise.  We rearranged the house moving desks, bookshelves, beds, and toys. By simply purchasing a rug and a wall decal of letters and numbers, Mila has a room that makes me jealous.

And she helped decorate.