Saturday, June 14, 2014

Writers block

I've been struggling mightily with the blogging/writing thing lately. 

I have ideas. I have half or fully written blog posts waiting for me to complete, delete or hit the publish button. Hey, I even have an entire draft devoted to ideas on what to write about. 

So my problem isn't lack of ideas. 

Perhaps it's more an existential one. ( and perhaps I've always wanted to use that word in a blog post)

You see, all around me I see and hear about real issues and problems. Not whiney blogger-mom-type problems such as what to get dad for Father's Day or what to do when your garden is producing too many strawberries. Or even pregnancy woes of poor bladder control or fatigue. 

You see I am lucky to be pregnant, when I know so many others who are struggling with fertility. 

I am lucky to be healthy and pick berries and go for walks and runs. When I have an old friend who is exactly my age and just started chemo. Or have another dear friend who is walking with one of her cherished ones through their last few months of life. Or when there are those who were born without ever having the chance to walk. 

You see. It just feels selfish to write about the every day. About work. Growth. Family. Life. Ups and downs. 

But on the other hand part of me believes that we need to embrace the every day mundane- ness for its own sake. The small struggles. The small successes. Because that is what life is made out of. That is where we connect with others. And that is where the magic happens. 

And well, because we can. 

Should we stop living because others are struggling? No. But I also do not wish to alienate isolate or diminish their struggle by ignoring it or focusing all of my energy on my own. It's a balance I suppose. 

Additionally I wonder if what I do and write means anything. I mean, I write and should write for me. But does it mean anything to anyone else. And please don't hear this as a fish for compliments. It's just what I'm feeling right now. Don't we all get into these funks of "what's the point" with particular efforts? Does writing do anything. For me? For anyone else? And does it even matter if it means anything to anyone else? Truly the answer is both yes and no. And sometimes when it's not clear like that, I just get stuck. And sit on it. 

And So here is has been why I have not been writing. Or at least publishing. This is my struggle. The meaning of what I do. Of one of the 100 things I like to do. So in this struggle I have focused my efforts in other directions. And that's ok. I tend to have a monkey brain anyway. 

And let me tell you, the strawberries in my garden have been abundant and delicious this year. It's not a bad place to put energy these days. And I'm happy to share some those. So as not to be completely selfish...

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