I guess that I thought it would have come back by now... the writing, the inspiration. I regularly look back on things I've written in the past and think, "Hey, that was kind of brilliant!" -- and I'd like to write like that again -- but it's like I'm a little empty.
I don't say that with self-pity or even a belief that it will be always this way.
I believe that it won't. I know that it won't. It always comes back... I just thought it would have returned by now.
Part of it is me... and that isn't a bad thing.
There was a relationship that I felt the need to write about and write about and write about - ad nauseum, really. But now... it's fine. And even when it isn't, I don't really feel like I need to explore it anymore. I believe that's a good thing... it's just a writing-less thing.
I sit down and the things that I used to spark my imagination or my writing bug... they just don't quite seem to work. I could write... I could make it sound good. I can be good at faking it. But, it wouldn't be real... so I just never do.
Part of it is my stage of life.
I have three teenage girls, and the things that I really need to talk about... are them. Or... probably more accurately, my feelings that I am complete ill-equipped to navigate raising a teenager in today's world. But, they're teenage girls - and I can't. It wouldn't be fair to them. I've worked hard to create a relationship of trust between us. It gives them the safety that allows them to confide the hard things - and me, the knowledge of where they are, and where I can help guide them. If I were to dump that out here, I would violate that... and destroy the trust that I believe is sacred and necessary and healthy.
The things that I need to talk about... can't be.
So, I haven't written - not much. But I miss it.