I’m a writer. But I don’t write. So, I’m not a writer. My former self, a writer, just follows me around, these days, like a shadow with really sour breath. I can understand how people warp when they don’t do what they want to do, and become old, and resent others who do things. Peer evilly through their window blinds at the teenagers in the street, fervently desire a good enough reason to call someone and complain.

I realize I have a new baby and new mothers shouldn’t do or decide anything drastic in the midst of the first chaos-riddled months of family life. I also realize that God extends grace to me, for me to receive into myself, and then for me to learn to extend to myself—give-a-poor-person-a-fishing-pole-not-a-fish-type-deal.

I used to be good at that, and then a semi-relentless stream of shit has been hitting the fan, and I have turned out to be a less-than-cool person under the stress.

And—writing has been my fever-reducer of choice for so many years that my inability to write much these past eight months has OF COURSE been problematic. Duh.

Hearing an up-and-coming young novelist on NPR just now is maybe the problem. If she and her work could perish, I would feel much better. KIDDING


Kidding. So, if I were given the opportunity to become a writer again, to really just sit down a couple of times a week and write my brains out, what would come out? Spiders, at first, elbowing around with missing legs, then ants, then harlequin beetles, then perhaps swallowtail caterpillars.

And then, after I got all reamed out, I would write a children’s book about Mary, and a long essay about Megan Allen, our farmer and my friend, and send it to Mary Jane’s Farm Magazine.