I'm still letting this new year settle in....some people claim words for their years (Courage, Joy, Peace), but me, I'm more cautious.
Last year, although joyous with the birth of my newest, was a challenge. I felt like it was a struggle and sympathize even more with my daughter when she is disappointed.
Mostly, because this past year did not look like I thought it might.
B and I had set out for last year to be the year of my writing. I was free to hole myself up in Starbucks on 7th street during A's preschool to write the story we both created. He had dreamed it one night, and my mind jumped in it like a game of Double Dutch. We were writing a story that we both loved, and I had set out to write 80,000 words of it.
Only a 1,000 were written, and they were hard, rough draft words with empty, transparent characters.
Over time, I stopped seeing these characters' faces, started running errands during my writing time, and then got pregnant and craved sleep instead of creativity during that time.
My writing felt silly and something along the lines of a life of luxury...who has time to write when there is a baby to be molded and shaped? Or a medical deductible to meet?
So I had to pick up my clients again and work with their rough draft words. I helped mold and shape them and observed the fruition of crisp, hardbound books from their words.
Jealous, tired, and weighty.
These were the words for me.
My words on this blog came to a halt too. I became more self-concious and worried about the importance of them.
So I kept them to myself.
This year, I'm trying to be realistic, but also dream a little, too. My arms are full with a child who sqaucks and coo, there are chores to be done, and other children to be corrected, but I'm still positive....and cautiously excited about a home that's to be ours soon with its very own office for my writing.
Perhaps this will be the year of words?
I hope so.