I have an English degree. I went thousands of dollars into debt for it. At one time, I was told that I was a brilliant writer by people who had never agreed on ANYTHING ever in their lives except for that one fact.
Here I am, ten years later.
What do I have to show for it?
No novel.
Poetry published here and there.
The odd article.
Still, overall, it feels as though I have nothing to show for all of that hard work I did when I was younger. I busted my rump all those years, and now I’ve got nothing to show for it except for these odd ramblings. I’ve had writer’s block for what seems like eternity. Every time I sit down to write, something comes along and eats my words, my thoughts, my imagination.
My biggest dream in life was to become a mother. I always figured I’d be happily married and writing like a mad dervish while raising my perfect children.
But life has a funny way of giving one what one wants, but twisting it, much like the Monkey’s Paw. Now I’m sitting here at 5am my time, my autistic daughter asleep by my side. I’m struggling to find work that would accommodate her schedule and the times that she is sick with whatever bug she brings home from school. So far, the best option seems to be working from home–writing, researching, reading, doing what I love. Just the same, I sit down to write, and nothing of quality comes out.
Nothing.
Good gracious, what killed the best parts of me? I used to be a good writer. I used to have windows full of beautiful houseplants. I used to have a steady job and a steady paycheck. I used to have a house that I rented on my own. I used to have a car. I used to have pride.
Perhaps now that I have my daughter, I can turn nothing into something. I have someone to fight for. I have a reason to get up each morning. I have a reason to relearn what gave me my green thumb. I have a reason to try and write something worth reading…maybe not for money, but for my own edification. I am healing, slowly. I am returning to who I was.
This nothing is going to turn into something amazing.