Spring may have sprung*, but when it comes to writing, there’s no spring in my step:
Book of M:
- Background Notes Wordcount: 0 words
- First Draft Wordcount: 0 words
Story of V:
Grand Total: 0 words
There’s no need, I think, to rehash all the reasons why my writing hasn’t exactly blossomed. Suffice to say that the pace of life with both V.R. and B.T. continues unabated. At the moment, I have no reason to expect anything else.
As I said last week, it is now quite clear to me that I was being overly optimistic when I set my goals for the year. I knew V.R. was coming, obviously, but I thought it was possible for me both to have a baby and to find time to write. Maybe if I didn’t already have a demanding daytime career, that might’ve been true, but I do and it’s not.
I have no reason, at this point, to expect the next several weeks to be any different. If I get any writing in, it won’t be much, and will almost certainly be substantially lower than my stated weekly goal of 1,750 words.
As the regular reader here could possibly tell from the tone of my recent posts, this all leaves me in a bit of an anxious and emotionally conflicted state. As I should hope is obvious, adding V.R. to our lives has been a happy and much-looked-forward-to occasion. And I regard the developments at the day-job that keep me so busy as being largely positive. But as a writer, which is a big part of my self-conception, all of this is a significant set-back. It’s difficult when you go through a sustained period of time where you must, of necessity, suppress an important part of yourself. For me, there’s a lot of internal angst and conflict over whether I can even honestly use the term “writer” to describe myself when I can’t even perform the most basic and self-definitional of tasks attributed to writers: namely, to write something, anything, regardless of quality. If I can’t even put words to paper, then what am I, really? A poseur?
The answer, I think, is that right now, and for the immediately foreseeable future, I’m not a writer. I’m a father who sometimes, on rare occasions when opportunity presents itself, indulges in a fantasy hobby of writing. I hate to call myself a hobbyist, because writing is so much more important to me than a mere hobby, but at the present time it feels the height of pretense to call myself a writer, much less an author, aspiring or otherwise.
I know that’s just the stress of the moment speaking to me. This, too, shall pass. But in the meantime, the fact remains: I’m not writing. And I don’t see that changing for a while.
Which leaves me wondering: why am I running through these paces, going on about how much writing I’m not doing, every week? I wonder if the time hasn’t come to say: “Hey, I’m not writing right now. I’ll let y’all know when that changes.” Then, I can focus what very limited blogging time I have to writing something more interesting than the same old “hey, no writing this week” post.
What do you, dear reader, think?
*Spring offer not valid in all locations. Please check your local weather listings for more details.