Writing Is My Home
This morning, I was brushing my teeth with no fewer than 4 tubes of toothpaste on the sink for company.
I wondered why and then remembered. Isla is four and in the toothpaste phase of her artistic career.
For five mintues I wanted to yell ‘Do we NEED this much toothpaste, though?’
But instead, I lined them up on the tub, and knocked each down like toy soldiers. (The toothpaste, not my family.)
I felt better.
As I sat with my coffee, I thought about what I would write today, maybe even for the #30Posts30Days challenge.
I’ve been thinking a thought since the weekend.
See, part of that whole um, constructive argument thing with my husband recently?
He thinks my blogging is a hobby.
It hurt, but he’s kinda right. For the past 18 months though, I’ve been trying to make it not a hobby. Not an online journal. (I took time off to make a human, and suddenly blogs were businesses.)
Instead of working on my art, I focused on my stats.
Instead of sharing memoirish, humorish pieces of writing, I blogged. About blogging. That has it’s place, and I enjoy um, growing my blog. However, that’s not really writing.
And notice my husband said my blog is a hobby. Not my writing
I got 2.5 things from that:
- No, it isn’t.
- Blogging is fun, and could become fun work, but my writing is my home.
1, again. My writing is my home.
When I was a kid I wrote on yellow legal pads and receipt rolls my Grandmother brought home from the bank.
I wrote stories and poems my third grade teacher said were ‘beyond my years’. My classmates wrote about rainbows and unicorns while I sat at the desk on the edge of the room writing about black roses and violins. True story.
I wrote through my parents divorce. They split up before I could write, but they’ve worked on hating each other for years. Lots of therapy and writing material there.
I wrote through changing schools.
I was on my bedroom floor writing at the exact moment my Nana was having a stroke.
I wrote what it felt like the day my Grandma forgot who I was.
I wrote through changing countries. (It’s a lot like changing schools, but it lasts longer.)
I wrote really bad poetry in my 20’s. (Like everyone)
Started novels, haven’t finished them.
Got married, and we strangely didn’t write our own vows, but they’re working.
Made a human, wrote very little.
Panic-bought a house, write in the kitchen.
People ask me why I write. I tell them I can’t not write, so here I am.
Writing is how I process the world. Which is why not finding time to write is so hard.
There’s dishes, and chaos, and toothpaste. That’s life. It’s also a cop-out.
Because writing is home, it’s how I think and breathe and make life OK. Mostly better than OK.
And I’ll do it all again tomorrow.