It’s been a long time. I kept thinking I needed to write something. I had ideas, but they didn’t seem good enough, I couldn’t think of a title, I was too tired, endless excuses. I joined a writing group recently, and made a goal of blogging again, and decided I needed to be writing, good or not, clever title or not.
This has been a running theme in my life lately. I visit the houses of other moms, whose houses are clean enough to lick the toilets, and they somehow do this while keeping their Lululemon yoga pants perfect. (And they actually look good in them, while I look like a sausage with a rubber band around it.) I sit at their tables, eating beautifully prepared organic snacks, while inwardly lamenting what a hot mess I am. One of my other hot-mess friends and I discussed it, and she laughed and said, “Yeah, I’ll never be Lululemony enough.”
It comes back to writing, too. I don’t have a book contract. I haven’t published much recently. I don’t go to conventions or self-publish or post writing memes. For awhile, it just didn’t seem important anymore, because I just wasn’t Lululemony enough to be good. There was some depression at play there, too. Grief still eats at the edges of my mind all time, and while life itself is back on track, there are still a lot of missing pieces. It’s been hard to get excited, but I’m trying to get it back.
I’ve gone back to subbing; as you know, it’s rough time to be in education, but I’m going back and will do my best. I’ve cleaned the house, cleaned out the closets and garage. I’m planning a mad scientist birthday party for M, and preparing A for kindergarten. I planted apple trees, and I’m sitting here looking at their bright little blossoms while I write, trying not to worry if it’s good enough.
Edge Pieces 