Writing

Last night I was flipping through a copy of Southern Living. I’m not sure what month. Maybe it’s January’s issue? Anyway, the magazine had a “Best of the South” section, and in it, it listed Rowan Oak, home of William Faulkner, as the best literary stop in Mississippi. I haven’t read Faulkner since my freshman year in college, and I admittedly didn’t have much of an appreciation for his style. Maybe it’d be different now. Perhaps I’ll revisit some of his stories. But I digress. I was intrigued by Faulkner’s hesitancy to leave home. Only at home was he able to write. In fact, the article said that when President Kennedy invited him to dinner at the White House, Faulkner actually turned down the invitation because he thought DC was an awfully long way to go just to eat supper. Crazy. But I understand. As a writer (who writes less often than she should these days), not only can I not write unless I’m in my own space, but I also cannot write unless my space is ordered. Right now there are magazines, notebooks, an empty ramekin, and a package of batteries on my desk. There are bills in the inbox. Baby food coupons tucked in front of an insurance statement. No writing will get done until those things are taken care of. Not that I have any assignments at the moment. But that’s beside the point.

I feel like I’m finally getting to a place in this new life of mine where I can return to being me. In an article I wrote for myMISSIONfulfilled about the first weeks of motherhood, I said that I never wanted to lose my identity after having children. So many women I know forget who they are. They leave behind their entire life to become known as their child’s mother. I was so afraid that I would become “Micah’s Mommy” and quit being myself. Don’t kid yourself. The danger is real. I never wanted to quit being me just because I had also become a mother. The past four and a half months have been a struggle because it’s a fight to maintain my sense of self when I spend all day every day taking care of my infant. It would be so easy for my life to be all about her. But it’s not. Being Micah’s Mommy is just one part of my life. It’s just one facet of who I am. And it’s just one task that God has called me to complete. He has also called me to write. And to speak. And to teach. And I’m finally in a place where I am able to do those things again. Thank goodness.

Another famous Mississippi writer, Eudora Welty, said that living, not reading, made her want to write. I have been living for the past several months. Now it’s time to write again. I’m itching to stretch my literary muscles. It’s time to blow the dust off my portfolio and start sending it out. Don’t choke on the cloud of dust!