Having that feeling tonight that I’ll never really write. It will never work it’s way out of me, new and shining and worth anything.
Partly it’s that I am rushing myself. I am pounding my brain saying, “If not NOW then NEVER!” The same speech I gave to myself as a young poet, scrambling through envelopes, shoving my words to every contest, every magazine, because soon, so soon, it wouldn’t matter if I ever got published, the age when it would be a wonder had passed.
It’s just that I am a mother now. My desk is a kitchen table, a pot of bad decaf, words scratched out between screeches on the baby monitor, half my brain listening for the sound of little fugitive footsteps in the dark upstairs. My words don’t flow out of me any easier than my babies did. They sit, swollen and content in my belly long past their welcome. They don’t come willingly. They are cut out of me, dragged feet first into the world, screaming.
This is how I feel about my words. Like I did around my due date, knowing that now is when they should come, any minute now. Every day I live as though this is the one that will birth me into a writer. This is the day. The sun sets again and I am struggling with sleep, struggling with waking, struggling with all this motion in my body, all this life that needs to come out, but just won’t.