Monday, June 1, 2015


I used to want to be a writer.

I could make up stories on the spot. Ideas would just come to me, and I'd run with them. I could find blog topics without much racking of my brain. And my sentences weren't complete messes, for the most part.

And then I had kids. And with them, along with the love and sleepless nights and generalized craziness, I gained one more thing: Mommy Brain. I can no longer remember what I was going to say when I started a sentence, let alone any sort of story idea that may have been reasonable.

My previous writings, mainly fantasy-esque YA, now seem meaningless next to the daily struggles of motherhood. I may enjoy reading it for the escapism, but writing it feels pointless. What's the point of writing fiction when I need to focus on the education, socialization, and general upbringing of two small human beings?

But the truth is, I still have the itch. I still want to write, even though I have no idea what to write about anymore. I look at my past works and I think, "Where did I ever come up with that idea? Where did that story come from?" And I really don't know. I feel like that part of me has disappeared, along with my ability to form a coherent, complex sentence. I hope it comes back. I hope Mommy Brain is temporary.

God, I hope it comes back.

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