Crossroads in the rearview
2014-07-16 @ 12:09 p.m.

I've forgotten how to write. Not blogging, though, I have that empty twaddle down pat. I've forgotten how to write for when no one is looking. Or for when the only person looking is the one person you know will get what you're saying no matter how you say it.

It has been years since I've written anything of any real substance, unless you want to count "Jimmy's Butthole", but that doesn't really count because I spoke that story before I wrote it.

I've been gearing up to start writing again and the few forays into my old hobby have been disappointing, at best. I tried to adjust the sails and try writing non-fic and Christ, that was bad, too. I came here to read my old entries because of that horrible thing brains tend to do: remembering the "Glory Days", making the days get more glorious the farther away they get. I remembered being borderline prolific back in the day.

Spoiler alert: I was not.

But I did churn out some good writing, specifically when I was in a lot of pain. I think this is why I've lost my skill. I'm actually happy.

Life is good in a way that, all those years ago, I couldn't even begin to fathom. I didn't know a life like this was possible for me. I didn't realize that everything was about to get so much better. I certainly hoped, but even in my dreams, I didn't know it would be like this. So which vein, exactly, am I supposed to open to bleed all over the page? Past pains are always an option, but forgive my flippant attitude when I yawn. Been there, done that.

I have always understood why the most creative among us have been addicts of some vice. Alcohol, drugs, sex. My vice has always been love. Not a healthy love, though. The needy "I worship you, please worship me" variety. I used to just think I was hyper-amorous, but it was bullshit. I wanted this kind of love that transcends, and as soon as I let go of all hope that such a thing exists, I realized that I had something so much more fulfilling.

No vice, here. No inner well of darkness to pull from for inspiration, motivation, or, most importantly, ability. I'm the mother of two beautiful, brilliant, well-behaved daughters. I'm the wife of a sensitive, open-minded, romantic man. I'm financially stable. I've got upper-middle-class grade designer purses. I've got a large diamond on my finger. My car has one of those reverse camera things so that I don't run over small children, or can at least aim well when I do. We have a gorgeous house, a fuzzy dog and three lazy-ass cats. And we're all healthy.

What right do I have to even have the slightest bit of unhappiness? People are homeless and starving. Children are dying. When I put my life into perspective, what the hell right do I have to be in pain? What right do I have to feel anything but extreme gratitude?

Gratitude doesn't exactly translate well onto the page, though. It seems to me that I've sold my writer's soul for a good life. I didn't realize at the time that this would be the deal I was making, but looking back, knowing now what I didn't know when I began writing here, I'd make the exact same choice again.

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