I have been trying for a very long time now. It has been out there. Just around the corner. A bit of out of reach. No time. No energy. What was the point again? Who will read it? Publishing is dying. Books are dead. I have to make dinner, go to work, exercise, walk the dog, grocery shop, grocery shop, grocery shop, go to a swim meet, sleep.
I am trying to write a book. And the fact that I haven’t pulled it out from under the magic toadstool or out of the velvet black hat as of yet is a matter of shame and guilt, regret and internal eye rolling. You’ve written three others; just get the damn thing done. Of course I did those without a job and with either no kids or in a different phase of parenting.
Today, I find the document on Dropbox. It takes me a moment; it hasn’t been touched since June. I find where I left off, and for 20 minutes I write. I just write. It’s reminiscent of the afternoon in August when Chris and I floated across a small lake in Wisconsin, holding hands, paddling a little, fluffy clouds overhead, no one around. Just us and the blessedly gnat-free, humidity-free air, the cool green water with its scent of algae and lively muck, the children out of sight back in the cabin doing who knows what. It was the most blessed hour of this entire summer.
When I write, I float. When I write, it all comes back – the ease, the pleasure. And as I read what I’ve put down I think, this is pretty good. Nothing to blow one away. Not the next best thing ever. But writing that deserves to be shared. Writing that might be of use to others.
Heavy sigh as I close the file.
I am trying to write a book. Trying.