Today I am a tired mother who wants to be a writer. Is it really a bad thing that I want to go away for a while to find my writing? I dream of a place where nobody claims a piece of me. A place that inspires, but doesn't overwhelm. A nurturing sort of place.
Does such a place exist for a mother of three?
This morning I tried to find a piece I'd written a while ago about my three months in Istanbul. I thought about reworking it for a literary journal, but now I can't remember where I placed it. In the deep dark murky space that is my brain, I picture it written in my lousy handwriting with blue ink on a white page.
Almost all of my scribbles are written with blue ink on a white page.
I just went through an entire journal - and stumbled on pieces of writing I'd completely forgotten about - including the beginning of a YA novel that has promise. Now I will go search through other journals looking for the Istanbul story - though I fear finding other pieces I've forgotten about that will plunge me further into longing for a space to get my act together.
‘Twas 28 Fridays Until Christmas
1 week ago