Why I Don’t Write

Who do I blame for the fact that I’m not writing? Well, I really want to blame everyone in my life. My son for always, always, always distracting me and for making me feel like I need to put him before any of my own desires. My  husband, because even though he thinks he is supportive of my desires, he has a way of making me feel like all I am capable of is keeping house and looking after our son in a barely acceptable manner. (Honestly, he is a really great guy.) I also blame my parents, but only because they have never had any real idea of how to support my dreams and talents, nor did they ever have the money to do so.

I also blame my hobbies. They are just too darn interesting and time consuming! It takes 400 hours to cross stitch a large design, or over 200 hours to play one of the video games I love. A pair of socks or a child-sized sweater can take upwards of two weeks. Even a simple sewing project can eat up a day or two. How is a women supposed to be crafty, look after her home, try to educate her child, relax, and still find time to write?

I want cry foul and say that life is setting me up for failure. How is a mom supposed to fulfill her desire to write and still be a good mom? Unfortunately for me, there are a whole lot of moms, with many more children than I have, writing and living their dreams. They may not have as many hobbies as I do, but I bet their lives are more fulfilling because they are writing and reaching out beyond themselves and their family circle.

As I try to write this, my son has interrupted me numerous times. He’s asked what I’m doing, asked about the program I am using to write, insisted that I type his name, talked to me about his blocks, insisted that I type the word house, told me he wants to play a game (which is currently running on the other computer), asked why my second monitor is black, etc. He nattered away the entire time it took me to write this, and yet I was still able to write. Maybe trying to live my dream is not as hard as I want to believe. I know, deep down, that it is my fear of rejection, of success, of the world, that keeps me from writing, and not the sock sitting on the sofa waiting for me to knit it.

Inspired by an exercise in [amazon_link id=”1582977968" target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]Crafting the Personal Essay: A Guide for Writing and Publishing Creative Nonfiction[/[/amazon_link]y Dinty W. Moore.