I’m in a weird place right now. I’m afraid of my writing. Not, boo! afraid, I’m just totally avoiding it. It’s been so long since I sat down to edit a poem, to write a poem. I tried today (tried is an overstatement). I wrote one draft and gave up. It’s been nagging me. The idea that now Jack is here, I need to work on getting some of my life back. MY LIFE. Not the life I have with him or with Pat, but my things, my loves, my wants. Do I even love poetry anymore? I’m scared that I give up too easily, that I have no confidence and how can you keep getting rejected without the confidence to keep going? I feel like a failed writer. I can’t even call myself a writer these days, that would imply the act was being acted upon.
I took this kind of break after college or maybe the last year of college. I just didn’t write a whole lot. Maybe that’s my thing every so often – to step back and reevaluate what it is I want to be doing, detach enough to dive back in. And then I worry of all the growth I’ve missed in the time I’ve been away. I’d be so farther along, I tell myself, if I just stuck with it.
I think a part of me has needed to detach from the logistics of writing – the people I feel baring down telling me I’m not good enough (wait, what people? ME.), the rejections which are an inevitable part and because of all these extraneous things, writing stopped being for me. So I’m waiting until I can own it again. I’m waiting until I feel itchy without it. I think it’s starting to happen. The anxiety is coming back. I just, fuck, can’t get the doubt out of my head, the voice that says – be a designer instead, you’re good at that, you have support in that. Being a writer without a support system is hard a fuck. Strange that some parts of me have completely changed (Holy shit, I’m a mom) and others haven’t one bit.

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