Every year, November rolls around and I briefly consider taking a good hard look at my writing practices. November has been on my radar as National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) for years, and I am constantly tempted to have a reason to wake up each morning and type out some 1000 words a day in efforts to create something artful out of nothing.

Because yes, someday I do want to write something for publishing. I want to write something that can be held and flipped through in long form. I want it to be good and I want it to be read and I want it to be wanted. But I’m not ready to start yet. To be ready to start, I’d need an idea. (And time. Time would be useful too).

Just because I’m not writing a novel doesn’t mean I can’t still write. This is something I’ve known for my entire life. What started as personal journal writing as a child turned into something that can actually reach public consumption when I decided to start blogging over ten years ago.

But my blog has been relatively quiet these days. I’ve started focusing on only what I absolutely need to focus on, because this third pregnancy is getting tough. My husband keeps questioning if I need to go back to the doctor and talk about how tired I am, but I keep reminding him that this is what pregnancy looks like when you have a full time job and two kids already at home. (And also low blood pressure and low iron). I understand his concern. During my pregnancy with Gavin, my low blood pressure resulted in a serious concussion after I fainted. But this is just what pregnancy looks like in my situation. It is big and exhausting. So I do what I need to do, and I sleep when I can. Which means I’m left with very little – or perhaps no – time or mental energy to write.

But, I really miss writing. Like, I really miss it. I feel like I’ve lost a good friend – or maybe a limb. I’ve been quite sad over the last few days, thinking about how much I miss the act of getting something out through this form that is meaningful to me and to others. I miss the act of sitting down, finding my voice, and expressing myself. I miss it so much. But I haven’t been doing that lately.

This isn’t an apology. I hate blogger apologies; those “Let me just come here and write a non-post about why I haven’t been posting.” I write for a lot of reasons, but mostly, (as I’ve particularly realized lately), I write for me. So I don’t want to apologize to you. But maybe, just a little bit, I want to apologize to me: the me who is grieving for this outlet that I haven’t turned to in a while.

So, I would be lying if I said I didn’t seriously consider participating in NaNoWriMo’s spin-off initiative: NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month). A blog post every day for a month? I could do that. Heck, maybe I should just try to write every day for a month, whether I post or not. Goodness knows I wouldn’t even need to use prompts, there is so much that I’ve been wanting to say over the last little bit. It would be so good to write. My mind raced all day on November 1st as I considered this possibility, and I tried hard to seek out a time and a place (and a cooperative mind-space) to write something that day.

I went to bed without writing even a sentence.

My heart broke, but I also breathed a sigh of relief. I just can’t do it right now. I’m in a period of life where I need to be very gentle on myself. I have needed to be careful to avoid expecting too much from myself. My body’s telling me to do less these days.

Those words swimming around my head aching to be let out through my typing fingers might be lost forever, but new words will replace them as my life continues on at this wicked fast pace.

Some days I dream about the life that I will have one day: a life where I don’t have children climbing on me constantly and demanding my attention. I dream about having more freedom over my time. I dream about being able to get the words out whenever they hit, even if that is 10am on a weekday. But I don’t want to rush through this part of my life. My writing is constantly interrupted now, but that two year old who was just crying for a hug won’t be wanting a hug forever.

I miss writing, but I’ll miss this too. I can always write. But this life buzzing around me won’t stay still for a minute. And this life? These lives? Are something I created too.

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