Hi, hello! How are you?
I am in the midst of a major stint of writer’s block. I keep showing up to write and feeling stumped, like my ideas are written on a smudgy chalk board far in the distance. I’m squinting, but nothing is coming into view.
I can’t see the narrative possibilities in my own life and I can’t conjure any imagined ones either. I see the matte yellow rain boots strewn across the dewy lawn. I see my daughter on the tire swing, savoring a sugar cookie in her swimsuit. She points to a white puff in the bright afternoon sky. “A cloud the shape of a crocodile,” she says. I write it down hoping it will add up to some communicable meaning. It does not.
When I sit down to write at a coffee shop it sounds like a nightclub. I hear the music and conversation at an amplified volume. Is everyone shouting? My inner voice remains muffled. A wisp of evaporating smoke.
When I’m not writing as frequently as I said I would, when I don’t overcome the resistance, a current of disappointment grows inside me. Even when I’m not thinking about writing, my subconscious is doing its dirty work, whispering my failings at the rate of a leaky faucet. Plop, plop, plop.
Lately my writing time has been filled with end of year parties, field trips, dance recitals, playdates, library visits. occasional freelance jobs, and browsing Indeed.com. The query always returns. Is it time to go back to work? Should I have another baby? When I’m not writing, I’m reading other writers’ essays — revving up the pesky, naysaying thoughts: there are so many other voices!
When I’m not writing, I’m loading the baby into the jogging stroller, running the hills in my neighborhood in pursuit of that satisfying wobbly feeling when I climb the stairs to my bedroom at night. I’m taking deep breaths while my four year old mixes miscellaneous spices from the pantry with water and sand and grass — “I’m doing an experiment, Mommy.” I’m lifting my two year old off the kitchen islands, repeating “no feet on the counter,” knowing I don’t mean it.
When I’m not writing, I’m reading, reading, reading. I’m listening to an audio book while I grunt through Romanian deadlifts. I’m belting the new Olivia Rodrigo song (“pisces and a gemini / but I think we might go really nice together!”) while I pack lunches and fill water bottles. I’m staring at a crack in the kitchen tile while I dip a carrot in a fresh jar of peanut butter.
In the last few weeks I’ve felt myself downshifting for summer. We are moving out of our house temporarily to repair sheetrock damage and we’ll be living in a much smaller space. A two bedroom apartment for a family of five. A minimalist dream? A recipe for overstimulation?
When I’m not writing, I’m inventorying all our belongings. I’m donating all the torn up kids books and the winter clothes that wont fit next season. I’m grateful for the peace I’ve discovered in having less. How it opens me up to more presence, more ease.
When I’m not writing, I’m reminding myself that summer is for letting the days soften around the edges. I’m leaning into the shapelessness. The morning air is warm, the sun streams through the leaves of our pecan tree. The garden is lush and abundant. The work of my life hasn’t changed, but I’m better at not rushing through it. I’m not waiting to arrive at some imagined completion when I can finally sit down, enjoy, relax. I’m reminding myself the good part doesn’t live at the end of a to-do list. It’s right here, right now.
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garden meals. Kale and mint! Green onion and squash! Last week I made burgers with finely chopped green onion in the patty! Served over garden kale. Plus, a yogurt sauce with lemon and mint.
crying at the pool when I finished Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow. I didn’t expect to love a book about video game designers, but its not news to the lit- girlies that Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow is much more than that. I read this book in the backyard while my kids played around me. I read it at the park while my toddler climbed the slide. I woke up early to write, and read this book instead. I love character-driven stories and this was that with the addition of a propulsive, cinematic plot that spanned childhood to middle age. It’s being adapted into a movie starring Daisy Edgar-Jones. Sally Rooney fans, rejoice!
reading and getting my friends to read + summer book recommendations. I can’t stop recommending books to my friends and probably need to start a book club. I’m drafting booklists in my mind constantly: Books for Millennial Moms in a Reading Slump and Books to Read if You Can’t Stop Scrolling. Here are some stand out books from this year: Deep Cuts by Holly Brickley, a nostalgic love story for music-loving millennials who shopped at American Apparel and love the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs. Writers & Lovers, a story about love, grief, and commitment to your craft even when it stops being socially acceptable. If you loved Lily King’s viral book Heart the Lover, you’ll love this one, too. Strangers by Belle Burden. If you’re in a reading slump, this will shock you right out of it. Famesick by Lena Dunham, duh DUH DUH. I mean, the writing is stellar and we got a Greta Gerwig cameo right off that bat!
keeping a list of words. Sometimes I open my phone note of words and stare at it lovingly, like a collection of antique purses passed down from by my ancestors.
my kids rosy cheeks and matted hair after an afternoon at the pool. Staring at them through the rearview mirror, strapped into their carseats, water bottles in their laps. I’m tired and sticky, but all is right.
summer songs. Hey, I made you playlist. CLICK!
Love ya,
Stephanie
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