Several months ago, I wondered whether not having a deadline every two weeks would mean I just didn’t write. I guess the posting activity on this blog has settled that question.
I’ve been mostly on vacation for a week and it’s only now, two days before I jump into the craziness with both feet again, that it occurs to me that maybe it would be fun to post something on the blog. What has happened to me?
In short, I’ve been working more. My responsibilities at my church job have increased, and I’m still teaching at home, and that all adds up to full-time, and then some. Then there’s the home shift, and, well, I don’t have deadlines for the blog, which would force me to publish.
Be that as it may — I am doing some writing for my job, so it’s not like I’ve suddenly forgotten how to string words together. But when I forced myself to sit earlier this week and write my family’s annual “year in review” — my New Year’s greeting, which I send instead of Christmas cards — I realized that, while every year has its moments, my life is mostly settled. For this I am grateful, full stop. I don’t think, however, that it makes very compelling writing, or reading.
As a writer, I know that my gift has always been not with scintillating subject matter, but with the words I choose to communicate it. That’s all well and good, assuming that there’s at least a little spark of a subject to get me going. But who wants to read — or write — about getting up, going to work, coming home, going to bed, and getting up to do it all over again? Plenty of interesting stuff happens at work, but I’m not comfortable writing about that. The kids still say funny things, but I don’t typically have the time, or the inclination, to build a column out of a quip.
I guess it’s not writer’s block. Liver’s block, perhaps, but I’m not dissatisfied with my life. Perhaps it’s mostly a time issue, combined with the sneaky suspicion that the day-to-day of my life doesn’t need to be written about so much any more.