I love to write. I really do. I practice it daily. I started my graduate program in english.
(Years ago, of course, before children took all my dreams away and crushed them beneath their little feet while smiling sweetly and saying, "mommy dear, we love you so much but we need all your attention and every ounce of energy you possess". Do I sound bitter? Nah. I have beautiful, loving, giving, sweet children. The fact that they have traded their boo boos for overwhelming drama and sobbing, asking me to fix problems only Dr. Freud would take on doesn't affect me at all)
Every morning I sit down and flex my writing muscles. I'm taking classes again. I'm reading books about improving my writing style, finding my voice. I've set goals for myself. I have a five year plan.
My SIL is an editor at the Washington Times. She's even agreed to edit my writing for me (for a price, even my SIL is smart enough to see a deal right in front of her. A desperate woman trying to fulfill the dreams that children crushed before she gets too old to use the bathroom by herself. I might add my SIL doesn't have children and doesn't really understand the "crushed dreams" scenario. She likes my girls and they think she rocks.)
But there's a problem. Isn't there always? It's hot. It's humid. No, really, I mean humid. The kind of humid that makes your hair look like you went to bed with it wet and then decided, F*** it, I haven't got the time or desire to try and make it look better.
The kind of humid that sends rivulets of sweat down through your breasts even though you're sitting in your house with central air on. It isn't pretty or sexy no matter what any one will tell you. The kind of humid that makes you sweat in places you never wanted to know produced sweat. I'm not Sharon Stone. I do wear underthings. It's damn annoying.
I don't know about you but when the humidity and heat cause more discomfort than the price of gas, writing is the last thing you want to do. Anything is the last thing you want to do.
*Just for note - don't bother buying a white car in the south, at some point even white gives up trying to deflect the heat.
What I really want to do is just lie flat on my bed with the air conditioner turned down, at least three fans pointed directly at my body, all turned on as high as they will go, a big gulp by my side and a movie on the tv. I don't even want to read because that would entail something touching me or the activity of turning the pages. Any movement causes sweating. I hate sweating. I hate sweating more than I hate brussel sprouts. Sweating makes me feel like some over-sized grub, stuck on a stick, just ready to be roasted by a half naked child living in the rain forest. And that, for all intents and purpose, is why I don't feel like writing.
Of course it could be menopause, in which case damn the torpedoes and cancer, hormones here we come.