Writing Is My Home

Photo by Jamie Street on Unsplash

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.


An eight year, heart on screen, 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:

  1. No, it isn’t.
  2. 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.