The Circle Turns

Parenting: The Struggle

Photo by Jon Flobrant on Unsplash

The first thing to know about me is that I’m a writer who doesn’t write. And that sort of kills me, it really does. Also, the “L” key on my laptop doesn’t work, which slows me down, as every time I type the letter, I must go back and type it harder, which obviously messes with my rhythm.

The next thing to know about me is that I don’t have a clue what I want to write, nor how to organize it. I have this feeling, this impression or belief, that if I were simply to write–just get some words down — I could perhaps make sense of it later. But, I never do.

I’m a writer who doesn’t write, whose laptop frustrates her, who lacks the stamina, organization, and self-discipline to actually apply herself to her art. It’s bad, it’s like a disease, an infection. It’s like a gangrenous limb that slowly poisons the rest of the body, mind, and heart. My lack of faith in myself has only grown, monstrously, over the years. I have proven, time and time again, that I don’t write, won’t write, can’t write. I refuse to write. And yet, that is all I’ve ostensibly ever wanted to do.

The fact that this is true haunts me. What does it mean about me and my life? Almost daily, I think to myself, heck, if I just begin today, I still have some time before I die, just barely perhaps, but I certainly, still, have more time today…