Making Time

It’s not writer’s block, but something keeps me from putting pen to paper these days. Time visiting my mom in Rhode Island? Perhaps. Fallen trees across my backyard from vicious storms? Could be. Temperatures hovering at 100 every day? Probably.

My gut says my head is elsewhere. Yes, my body talks to me all the time, and I usually listen. But these days I’m hearing voices that say, “Don’t worry, you can write later,” and “You’ll remember that thought. No need to write it down now.” Inevitably, I don’t write or remember.

After I run a few errands, I will plop myself down in my studio and write. About the black clouds and hail we raced home last night. About the warm blueberry cobbler I made with coconut flour. About the lump in my throat when I opened the door to my dad’s workshop last week. I hadn’t been in since he died. Seeing his shirt hanging from a nail, hearing the radio station pop on as I flicked the power switch, and noticing ancient paint and turpentine cans lining the wooden shelves–these all need some kind of form and structure.