Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
Thought I was gone, didn’t you? Yeah, some days I did too. Certainly this won’t go back to being “Twelve Moons”– no more accounts of how many steps I took, or what I had to eat. Though I will still write about food. And aging. And self-image. But the narcissism that it takes to write about your own struggle with weight, day after day after day, was dull.
It was already starting to peter out. Then I hurt myself. I don’t even remember doing it– a foot put wrong somewhere along the way– and badly strained the Achilles tendon in my left foot. I am not quite recovered still. Some mornings I have to hold on to the walls so I don’t fall down. For good measure, throw in a round of illness, and I wish I was talking metaphor. The day after my birthday in January, I was laid flat with the flu (I think it was the flu) and didn’t get out of bed for three weeks. I wasn’t fighting for my life. And it was a good thing I didn’t have to, as I hardly had the energy to walk six steps to the bathroom.
So to say I lost my mojo is to speak the truth.
I know I have to get back to writing. Every time I start a new blog I think my friend David Esrati must shake his head. He is most definitely of the opinion that one should have one blog and one blog only. David wears many hats, but he is a wizard at marketing, and he may have a point. Every time I have a blog that picks up a little momentum, I kill it. It comes to an end of its pre-ordained life and I start the next. I told him that the different blogs are like different books (he’s not a writer per se) and though that’s true, I missed the lightbulb going off over my own head.
So I didn’t start a new one this time. I re-kindled an old one, sputtering and smoking and creaking along.
Every time David introduces me to someone he refers to me as the best writer . . . and when he says it I generally am the best writer in the room. I hardly ever go into rooms with other writers. But lately even that’s felt like false advertising.
A few weeks ago sitting with another friend I said “I don’t think I can write anymore.” Though I was deeply embarrassed to do so, I began to cry. It was the truth of the statement leaking out, it was the fear, it was the absolute desolation that I felt inside. I know I still have the skill to write, it’s the willpower that worries me. The discipline. It’s always the discipline.
I thought at the time that it was our precarious financial situation that left me paralyzed. And there may be some truth to that. But I choose this so that I won’t have to give up 40 hours a week to further someone else’s Big Dream. So why have I stopped writing? My mother, self-styled expert on such things, would (and has) deemed me depressed. But the depression is because I’m not writing. And of course it’s hard to get back to writing because I’m depressed because I’m not writing.
I’m just lying here in the sawdust.
But I’m going to try to clamber back up once again. I hope you’ll find me here, most nights, writing by the light of the moon. We’ll see how it goes.