All day, I think about writing. Words and phrases bubble up in my mind that so perfectly sum up the moment, right now and I know I'll want to remember this little something when my kids are bigger.
Tonight, I think, when they're in bed, I'll write about this. But then the good-nights happen, and the dinner dishes are finally put away, and the library books are stacked up, and the diaper bag is packed with a ridiculous amount of stuff for tomorrow, and I sit down with nothing to say. My thought-filled, wordy brain is a lump of leftover oatmeal between my ears.
What was I going to say? What did I want to write?
It's a cliche, the tired-all-the-time stay-at-home mom. But here I sit, tired. Tired, brain-dead, storyless.
When I was 18 (and 17 and 16...) I wanted nothing more than to be a filmmaker because I loved visual storytelling and I believed I had something to say. I remember sitting in the computer lab the first week of college, planning out my coursework. I buzzed with the anxiety-joy of it all. I was going to read Victorian literature and take women's studies classes and make movies. My advisor, who insisted we call him by his first name, said, "So you're going to be the next Jane Campion." I totally was. I was going to make deep movies about trauma and women's minds. I was a storyteller.
Even though nothing much had happened to me yet.
I wonder where that came from, thirteen years ago. That powerful sense of having Something to Say. I wish I'd saved some of it for these evenings, now that I've actually had a few experiences that might, with a little Hollywood glossing up, be the jumping-off points for screenplays, short films, pilots.
All day, words fill me. Stories everywhere. But when half the house is sleeping and there's a little creative space around me, I have nothing. The stories must go to bed with my children.
Goodnight, loves. See you in the morning.
* * *
Oh, wait. Here's something: you know that coconut oil-coffee thing all the crunchy mamas and CrossFitters are doing? I was making it on occasion, but I can't anymore. When Ivy sees coffee going into the blender, she comes running.
The other day, she got herself a cup.
Engage coffee break.