I’ve missed writing.
I’ve missed writing a brain-splat of wordy words and half-formed feelings and one-liners that, really, don’t fit quite right anywhere else. Slices of life and sweet, tiny little memories I panic about forgetting (like, “2am, covered in sweat” panicking), and the sort of written proof that I was here and most decidedly more than a chauffeur or shoe-finder in this season of life.
Which is why I’m writing again in this space.
Which is also why I’m working towards finishing a second book or new play before my kids are fully realized high-schoolers. I mean, there’s time, but…I’ve seen how quickly and thoroughly the deep waters of Small Children close over your head.
In a good way, I mean.
(To my non-parent or considering-parenthood friends: Parenting is great. It’s super great. Not always, but enough of the time that alluding to drowning in your own living room is actually more whimsical/manageable than abjectly terrifying. Ha HA.)
So. Writing.
I’ve realized that writing is a kind of self-care for me- even though my skin and hair don’t necessarily reap the same benefits as if my Me Time were at, say, a spa. (Sigh.)
And as great as bullet journaling is, it’s not as cathartic for those of us for whom “concise” is more than a “word” in “parentheses.”
I used to write in journals.
And, before that, diaries. (Journals were a much loftier way of saying “diary” in high school, frankly, and commanded more respect at the coffee shop. I never wrote at coffee shops in high school, but I very much wanted to and I think that should count for something. I did wear a terrific flannel, though.) These “journals” logged all sorts of important facts and thoughts and will most likely be used for future collegiate lectures as guides for gripping personal narratives, essays, and love letters to 11th grade boys.
And then in my early twenties, I stopped. With my playwriting and creative fiction degree in my hot li’l [unemployed] hand, I pretty much stopped writing altogether. (How’s that for dramatic irony?) I was busy, to be fair. Those Pizzeria Uno’s franchises weren’t going to stalk themselves for potential waitressing jobs, and if I weren’t going to drink those amaretto stone sours in Lincoln Park at 1am on a Monday, then who would? (No, really, was I the only one drinking those? My stomach lining is still repairing itself.)
But then…blogging became A Thing. (I’m sure it was a thing well before 2004, but like I said- I was busy.) My first blog was so passionate and full of Issues and…kinda sweary and angry for no apparent reason.
Finding one’s online voice takes a little bit of practice…but I wasn’t in the mood to hear that just then.
Because I was 24.
The silver lining of these free-wheeling online thoughts was that I realized how much I had missed writing. Not for an assignment, not for a potential job, just…for me. And so I started writing again.
I wrote plays.
Some were produced in Chicago. Some were really, really funny. Some…can stay in the past.
And around the time I became pregnant with Nora, I wound my way into Mommy Blogging. (Which is a term I hate hate hate. It’s so…terrible. Like, you expect to be patted on the head. “Good for you. Are you a Mommy? Are you?” “Get your hand off my head, I’m an effing mother.”)
Anyway, there’s money in- shall we say- parental blogging. Some of it’s good, some of it’s juuuust this side of insulting (but comes with branded swag!) and allows you to feel Seen.
I did this for years.
A book came out of this.
I was so good at doing this that I got a job writing for an award-winning parenting magazine. (Ha, joke’s on them– I’m an underemployed playwright who can’t get a job at Uno’s! Then again, I won some awards for them, too, so maybe the joke’s on Uno’s.)
And then I started writing with Netflix. And that paved the way for me to interview famous people- which paved the way for me to pitch requests to interview famous people for the magazine- and suddenly, I was writing Things That Look Good On Twitter.
But then, about two and a half years ago, I got sick.
Pretty stupidly sick. But I kept writing, because now I had deadlines and calls to “just touch base” with PR people. During this time, I was still blogging about my kids- and, you know, parenting my kids- because I was afraid that if I stopped, I’d stop.
I did this for two straight years in between rheumatologist blood draws and minivan naps in the carpool lanes.
On January 1st, 2018, I started Tidyish because I thought that would streamline my interests and passions and yes, sure, moneymaking opportunities. (And it mostly has! And it’s mostly been great!)
But I burned out like whoa.
This past June, on the 10th anniversary of Lollygag Blog’s very first post (about Patrick Swayze, no less), I decided to take a break. No more blogs, no more pitches, no more product reviews with 2-day turnarounds.
I spent the summer with my kids- who aren’t going to want to make fairy houses and blanket tents with me forever, I’m starting to realize- and fought the urge to post every.last.detail to Instagram.
And guess what?
I started to miss it. Long-form writing, I mean.
I missed capturing the minutiae that I don’t want to forget from these ages, my favorite ages. (All of these ages are my favorite ages.)
I missed feeling like I’d done a decent job at stopping and seeing and feeling and saving the Important Stuff. (Even if the Important Stuff was texted in short form on an iPhone app.)
And I missed feeling like a good writer.
I can’t paint. My baking is terrible, running a mile would most likely break my leg off, and God knows I can’t steal a Pizzeria Uno’s job at gunpoint.
But I can feel like a good writer.
So, as long as I give myself plenty of grace- and immunosuppressants and naps- I’m going to try and feel like a good writer this year.
Until Uno’s calls.
Then you guys are on your own.
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