Too Many Notebooks and Not Enough Words

For as long as I can remember I have done what I call “writing in my head.” I would tell myself stories about the people around me, rehash conversations, write essays about things I was upset about or happy with, and generally narrate my life. Sometimes these “writings” would turn into actual writing in notebooks or on this blog but frequently they would just drift away with the day. A lot of this writing would happen at night as I lay in bed. All too often, I stayed awake late into the night to fine-tune something that would be just a hazy memory by morning. But that was fine. That “writing in my head” was the way I relaxed, coped with life, and let off steam.

A few years ago, I realized that this ability to “write in my head” had disappeared almost completely. Oh, I still kept my blog ticking along with poetry posts and book reviews but the inventiveness, the creativity, the part of writing that brought me true happiness would only emerge once in a great while if at all. I found this very upsetting. I would try to force it but it just would not happen. Anything I wrote was dull and clunky. It was as if a part of me was missing.

I wasn’t sure why this happened. Life has been busy, anxious, stressful, and full of worry. But that has been true of life before and the words have never deserted me. Why was it happening now? I didn’t know and slowly I became resigned to the way things were. But I must not have been completely resigned because I kept buying notebooks, as evidenced by the photo above, hoping that one day they would be full of words again.

At the end of January, I had to have some routine surgery. It took me a couple of weeks to recover and I couldn’t do much but lie in bed during that time. Once the pain was better it was surprisingly pleasant. No one expected anything of me. I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything. The list of endless things that needed to be done had to be ignored. I felt cocooned in a world outside the everyday stresses and worries.

One day, lying in bed and listening to music, I realized I was “writing in my head” again.

It isn’t the same as it was. I still can’t force it and it is very intermittent. But slowly, very slowly, the words are occasionally coming back. I am coming back.

My daughter and I are going on a much-anticipated vacation next month. She will bring her sketchbook and I will bring one of those blank notebooks. Hopefully, the words will be with me. I’m feeling nervous. What if the words still won’t come? What if I simply stare at a blank page? What if I am still missing an integral part of who I am?

But maybe the fact that I started writing a whole post in my head about “writing in my head” means I shouldn’t worry too much.