…stepping back into the blogging world has been frustrating to say the least.
It has been so long since I’ve written anything for myself that I’ve come down with a serious case of writers block. I feel the innate need to site lines with previously published works in APA format (Weakley, 2006). And I also find myself cursing more than a mother of an 18month-old should…ahem.
I hate the feeling of having so much to say, and not knowing how to translate it from my firing neurons to paper (er…screen). When I was young, I would often lose hours in writing and story-telling. I would make up my own news articles on happenings of my family and what we did while visiting Grandma and Grandpa. As I got older, I filled a little white and lavender diary with scribbles and thoughts and doodles. I wrote my hopes and fears down…on paper…and kept them locked, safe, behind that little silver lock.
In my adolescent years, my writings/ramblings went from hearts and flowers and silly, elaborate stories to those that had more substance…more opinion. Much to my Grandfather’s delight, I became fairly politically minded at a young age. My love for writing eventually lead me to start an underground newspaper at my high school and win a small scholarship for an essay on national sovereignty concerning America’s relationship with the United Nations (sounds pretty sexy…huh???).
Ahhh…the life my little writer-self led.
And then I went to college and it all went to shit.
THEN I was in grad school…and it really really went to shit.
Ahhhh…let me explain. I am a much more proficient writer now then I was at 17. But over the years I’ve noticed that as my technical skill has increased (and I’m not saying I’m all that great a technical writer) my joy for writing has diminished. The writing I do is straight-forward, scientific, and BORING.
And I’ve found that as I try to get back into the more joyful and carefree writing of my youth…it’s hard. It’s hard to turn off this big ‘ole egg-head I’ve sunk 130K into…. And it sucks.
I have so much to say, and no good way of saying it.
I can just picture my grandfather. If I were to say this to him right now, he would smile and simply say “keep writing”, knowing that my voice would come eventually. But he’s brilliant like that.
SO…while I am frustrated…and I hate everything that comes out right now…I will keep writing. Because I want to find my voice again…and the balance between the egg-head and the creative little nut who has been dormant for too long.
In honor of my Grandfather, Joe and I faced the great-white-winter-wonderland of New England, and took our Ellie-girl down town. We had great plans of walking some of Freedom Trail and sight-seeing, but it was cold…and blustery New England won. So, we settled for a lovely visit to Faneuil Hall and sat through a quick lecture about the building and the importance it holds in America’s history.
As we learned about the role of liberty and freedom…how the definitions of such changed over the years…it was amazing to see my girl walk around a room she wouldn’t have been welcome in prior to the early 1900s. To hear about Frederick Douglas and Elizabeth Stanton, to think about the history that had been contained in those walls. If those walls could talk…
I am always inspired by history…the thought of leaving something behind gets into my soul and makes me want to change things in this world. To make a difference. And not in some bullshit way…but to actually make.a.difference.
Speaking of difference…
A certain little Bean is coming into her own. Hearing about freedom must have inspired something in her that day, because both her daddy and I could tell the difference by lunch-time.
We went to the Black Rose for a delicious Irish lunch (and Belgian beer) and a certain little someone not only sat by herself but she also had her own lunch of fish and chips and her own water.
And she enjoyed every loving-independent second.
I cannot take how quickly she’s growing. Every time I look at old pictures of her, it’s like a kick to the chest…knocking out the wind, telling me “it’s going too fast! It’s going too fast!!!”
But these pictures will certainly make me smile. Because this was the day that our little girl crawled along the steps where others had sat, and toddled along where others had stood for humanity and freedom. This was the day she sat like a little lady at an Irish pub in Boston, with her red-tinged hair, watching a rugby game on TV…the only hint to her age being her small stature the tattered, eye-less “papoo” she routinely chokes the life out of.
All of which is a perfectly awesome tale, despite writers-block.