The tension is there but it’s obscured by menial tasks and busyness. I finally sit down after months and months of avoiding it and making excuses. Months ago, I shut the door to my creative mind, the part that strings words together for no one but me. I stacked boxes in front of that door, boxes full of dusty phrases like, “I can’t,” “I need to focus elsewhere,” and “first I need to take care of these things…then I will write.” It seems noble to deny what makes me happy to take care of everything else first. In fact, I start to believe that I don’t even want to write, that it’s too much work and I don’t have time to get into my own head right now.
I can press a 25 pound kettle bell over my head with one hand but sometimes the weight of a pen seems like too much trouble.
I got past it today, for today. I had to leave my house and go to my favorite coffee shop and let Toni make me soup, but I got past it. After about 300 words I felt something crack in my chest. Something opened up that had been locked for a very long time. I struggled not to let tears flow because I was in a public place and I would look crazy sitting there with my laptop crying in my soup. But that’s how it felt to write again after all this time.