I wasn’t chastened into silence by the Seahawk’s Superbowl loss (although, at the risk of sounding like a total chump, I will admit to having shed a couple tears).
What did lead me to stop writing (as I’ve done many times before, though never, perhaps, for so long a duration) was a combination of things: the self-reinforcing cycle of failure to produce, which eventually calcifies into a habit of defeat. Pure and simple laziness. And, probably most of all, pregnancy.
It’s almost as if the generative processes occurring within my body obviated those that may have occurred outside of it, all of my creative energy bound up in the creation of a tiny human. It’s weird. And hard to write about. This state that’s been the central fact of my life these last seven months has defied exploration via the usual channels (prose, poetry, drawing). Even my journal has been barren.
At first, it was easily justified, explained away by the intensity of my condition. Although being pregnant is pretty damn normal, that doesn’t diminish the world-shaking significance of the experience. So I gave myself some slack (see the “Resignation” post a couple of entries ago).
It’s time to begin again, though I don’t quite know where to start. So I’ll just start with this.