Yesterday I used all my sporadic spare minutes to write, longhand in the last pages of my beat up green notebook. A Lidia Yuknavitch writing prompt. She’s generous enough to put a few prompts in the videos on her YouTube channel. I haven’t written from a prompt in years and years. Lidia’s are so different – they crack you open.
There are so many things I want to write about in this space that flew through my mind yesterday: the crushing weight and the letting go of perfection (those self and/or societal and/or familial-constructed ideals, which are really just myths), longterm/extended breastfeeding – or as I call it, breastfeeding, feeling like a counter-cultural freak sometimes (a lot of times), the happiness of having a local writer friend, the gift and privilege and sacrifice of being home with my daughter, never finding my footing in the corporate world, fear of not knowing what comes next, the way my thinking becomes blocked – until it finally occurs to me that summer will come again, green and warm and happy.
I put off yesterday’s post until 8pm, and after filling those notebook pages, I had nothing left in me but two sentences.
The more I write, the more I surprise myself. There’s what we think we want to write, and then there’s what actually spills out onto the page.