I haven’t been writing because I feel I don’t have much to share. No opinions, no special events and no grandiose ideas that come to me in the middle of the night. I am still alive and quite well. I have fallen into a comfortable routine. College classes have started and because of an oversight, I missed my sign up window for the classes I wanted. I am lucky to have two writing classes this term; technical writing and professional editing. The more I pursue a career as a grant writer, the less I feel prepared to be an actual writer. I am going through a “Can I really be a writer?” stage. I am often feeling unsure and feel like a kid learning to swim but still clawing desperately on my caregivers chest, eyes bulging, pleading.
Compounding that doubt is the fact I can’t/ don’t communicate with other writers often enough. I read about them; in fact I read or write in every spare minute I have in the day, sans taking a walk or going to the bathroom– which can be one activity combined! I have large windows of opportunity to sleep and think and stare out the window, blindly. I am the expectant mother, waiting for the birth of my new life somewhere in the not so distant future. That skirts around the divorce outcome, will I receive any monthly stipend? If I do will it be enough to live off of independently and allow me to move back to the town I want to be in? From there I dream. I imagine the little bungalow I’d purchase with enough room for the cat, a child on occasion and myself comfortably. A white house with a white fence, roses, a garden and day lilies in the yard. A simple, quite life, littered with family and friends, love and laughter.
Reality pulls me back to my situation, a bittersweet feeling envelopes me. I am grateful for all the blessings in my life. It isn’t anything I ever dreamed about, but it has covered a few things on my bucket list.