In which I am stalling and just writing – on a pumpkin

Brian and the tines brought home a little pumpkin from the community garden along with bags and bags of cucumbers that I promptly declared that I would not pickle. I scrawled a few lines on the tiny pumpkin because somehow, I’m driven to write words, even with Sharpies on gourds.

You know how kids are so exhausted when they start school? I hear from my friends about their kindergartners coming home, worn clean out, collapsing to sleep still in their Dora backpacks straps. Anne has not had that transition, but instead, it is mine. We’re two weeks into homeschooling and I’m exhausted. I think teachers need raises, I mean, honestly, did you know that kids go to school, like, every day? So every night, I”m figuring out lesson plans and during the afternoons, she studiously calls me Teacher for some reason even though I’m trying to get her to stop it. I’m not a teacher, I say, I’m your Mum. And in my head, I’m all of it and none of it here, too, so we’re reading a lot and Joe squirms and squirms and squirms but I’ve figured out he’s listening while he’s moving so it doesn’t bother me – much – anymore and Evelynn observes us all, wisdom.

I read this and now I feel like he read my mail. Because yes, guilty, sir.  I’m stalling like crazy because I can feel this brick in my chest, the one chanting writeitoutwriteitoutwriteitoutwriteitout and it scares me half to death because what if it isn’t any good and what if no one reads it and what if I’m just another hack and what if what if what if it succeeds? I am halfway finished the book I think might actually have some value, maybe even be a-real-with-a-cover-book someday, but I haven’t even opened the file in days and days.  And then I have the book that I’m sure will never be published because it’s nothing and everything all at once, it’s only in my skin still. Both of them wanting time and so instead I write a blog post, make cookies and eat too many, refinish a bookcase because clearly I am nuts.

I wait all day long to write at night and then, when everyone is in bed and Brian is out working for yet another night, I collapse into my chair and think, oh, gracious, I’m just too tired to even think. I mutter and think and yearn for time to write, to create, all day and then when it comes, I’m all Let’s See What’s Going On With The Twitter.

Last night, I typed out query letters. I printed off my own work onto a page and suddenly the words that I loved and bled out seemed small and worthless but I folded up the computer paper anyway, slid it into an envelope along with the envelope that they, the literary elite, will use to send it back to me with a typed rejection and today Brian dropped them in the mailbox, asking them to think it’s worth a bit of ink on their paper. And then that will make me a writer?
Even this, this just-write challenge is me, stalling.
Linked up with thanks for the time with Heather, the lovely one, at The EO.

Just Write

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