I don’t write anymore, in fact I hardly read. The latter is best explained by the reality of reading too much during the one year MA. I never thought that was possible, but apparently it was and continues to linger. I got myself into novels early this spring and have finished a couple. I can’t believe I hardly read. This to me is far more shocking than my lack of writing.
As far as the lack of writing, well.. I’ve been dating the most lovely man for some time now, but he is so damn private. I think out of respect for him and the fragility of our new relationship, I’ve self-censored. There have definitely been a few occassions where he makes known his disapproval of a facebook status update. In fact, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like ANY status update I make whether they be too revealing and personal or just too silly. Conversely, I think he also likes my whitty remarks. To be fair, I have toed the line of inappropriate status updating… such as when I’m in a mood and a bit perturbed at him and make this known to the world albeit cryptically.
I’m usually a no-censorship kinda girl. If someone comments on this blog or facebook I usually let it be regardless of how much it may make me go ‘ugh’. Of course there are limits and an occasional deletion, but only when a comment goes beyond good taste and thus in my opinion cancels any freedom of speech rights. However, here I am, constantly censoring myself. It’s been hard. I still ‘think in tweet’ and write then edit updates in my head regularly – but only infrequently do they make it on the interwebs anymore. It’s weird, and I’m not sure I like it. Yet, I’m also not sure I care and figure this has probably been a good season of editing whilst censoring my own voice.
However… bigger than any of the above reasons, I would argue that I don’t write because I’m too busy. I work a lot – A.LOT. The funny thing about that though is I don’t work any more, in fact, possibly less, than I did in Alaska. I also have as short if not shorter commute to work (10 min bike vs. 45 min bike in winter). But then… I used to live alone and do my own thing. I could let the dishes stack, the laundry pile up, and so on and so forth. That still happens quite a bit, but hmm… the workload is just so much greater. No, the chores are not evenly distributed, but neither are they ridiculously unfairly weighted on my side. I just can never seem to catch up.
Which brings me to my point of which is best illustrated by a particular birthday card give to me by my parents this May. ”You’re 30, You’re mature, You’re responsible…. You’re old”. Yes, that is it. Not that I am old old, but wow, things change dramatically at 30 especially when a woman adds a huge dash of domesticity to her life. In two years I’ve noticed big differences in my body, my energy, and most importantly, my interests. I came to grad school wanting to read and write and that was it. Two years later I’m over it. My life consists of a simple, yet satisfying day job, chats with my sweetie are about practical issues in the present and fanciful dreams of our future, and the rest of my time is spent with my mac and reality tv – all of this leaves no room to write. [for now?]
