a solitary space
Well, it happened. Ten days in to the challenge to post every day and I hit a wall.
Which I choose to believe means I am human. And that important things demanded my all the last two days. And that I’m too old to stay up after midnight more than a night or two in a row. And that this Howard Johnson’s hotel room is entirely uninspiring. And I can’t seem to block out the ESPN the boys are watching.
I had ALL DAY . . . my husband drove across the state, and I sat and wrote a piece for work. We stopped at a Starbucks and I sent it off and we got back in the car and drove some more.
I must have started ten different blog posts between Ellensburg and Spokane. At least.
Every one of them put me to sleep. Or maybe it was the culmination of ridiculously late nights and early mornings colliding with delicious, warm, feet-up-on-the-dashboard, car sunshine.
Or the radio . . . I just can’t tune out Taylor Swift to write. (Unless I’m already deep in creative thought. Then I can drive for miles and never notice I’ve been listening to the sports station Dave left on.)
When I’m home alone, I write in silence. No movies. No music. Nothing. I can’t think in notes and lyrics when other words and tunes compete for space in my head.
. . . there aren’t many hours of silence, are there?
The older the kids get, the later they go to bed. Sometimes, I am actually the first to bed at night. After all the years of being the one to tuck in, I love when the boys tuck me into bed and parade by to give me a good night kiss . . .
So here I sit, in the hotel bathroom. In silence at last. Hearing my thoughts. Reflecting on a lovely evening of dinner before the show with our college girl and then front row seats to delightful comedic musical theatre, watching her dance and sing. It was a marvelous opening night for The Drowsy Chaperone with hundreds of highly entertained parents, alumni, students and guests.
She inspires me, that one.
I think about the courage it takes to audition, which she’s probably done 50 times in the last nine years. And I think about how I hold my writing close so many times and am fearful of risks.
And I think about the writers who inspired me to pursue my dreams of writing and the commitment it takes to do it on top of all the other things they have to do like work and live and raise children and be married and have friends and do things, and I respect them all the more for their years of labor and for getting it out there into the daunting world already so full of words.
Another late night, then.
Only quickly as I can (though not quite twenty minutes) because I can’t be so tired anymore. I want to live in my season of noise and be fully awake to it. Because one day the quiet will not be a precious commodity and I refuse to add regrets.
Here’s to hitting that publish button again —