When my mother was sick, I had a hard time writing. I suppose it felt like too much of a disconnect, that I would be somehow too removed from the situation and I was desperate to have every moment that I could with her. Most of the writing I did at the time happened when I was not in the house, other places, and it wasn’t an issue.
After she died, I still didn’t write. I suppose it was a matter of the grief, of my brain being devoted to processing this thing that was both anticipated and yet seemingly impossible to truly fathom. Understandable, I suppose, but after months of feeling unable to write because of everything, I thought it needed to happen. I needed it as an outlet, a way to express myself. Yet still I couldn’t do more than revise old stories.
It was a deadline that ultimately helped me break through whatever the block was. I agreed to take over a writing group slot for someone else, which meant my story was due last weekend. Which meant it needed an ending, and couldn’t be messy or sloppy. Flawed, sure, but professional. And it took me down to the wire, and slightly beyond, to finish it. I hacked and and bludgeoned, whereas I wanted to surgically cut and massage, but in the end, I finished the story.
I expected a bloodbath at the crit session, I was steeled for one, but in the end, it turned out it wasn’t that bad. And that was just as important to me as finishing the story. As wrong as it felt. As forced and faulty and fucked up, it wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected.
Since the crit session (this past Tuesday), I’ve already started a new story and worked on a few others. The desire was always there, but now the ability to act on that, to know that it’s okay, has come back to. And for that, I’m grateful.
Now the stories await.
