I haven’t written a lot of anything lately. Before it was because I was busy moving and buying a house and the kids and work etc., but before it seemed if I had something to say, a need to get pen to paper I made it happen. I made the time.
Part of my problem is I am no longer around other writers. When I was in school I was around women who were smart, and inspired me. I looked forward to class and absorbing everything they said and had written. When I no longer was in school I yearned for the dialogue and the exchange of ideas, talking about writers and books, and ideas and our different opinions on the life around us, so many with different life experiences.
I then joined a writers group, I enjoyed our Saturday morning meetings, sometimes dragging on far past our set times. Listening to other writers, some professional and some, most like me, who do it for our own enjoyment and need. I met some terrific people. One who I thought was terrific, a friend and fellow writer.
He seemed to push the envelope of our friendship, then stole my trust, and lost my respect. I could no longer return to my writing group due to this broken friendship. In my very content and small life, I have very little that is my very own, my writing, just possibly, the only thing in my life that is just for me. It’s something un-similar to most of my friends and co-workers, so having this group was something I needed and yearned for and now my writing group is no longer a plausible option.
I started a book club, which in its first month is hard to tell where it will go, I hope to re-gain some of the dialogue and discussion I am missing in my life, but still, I have not re-kindled my passion for writing like I once had.
So, I will go back to the constant housekeeping and piles of work I brought home with me, hoping to find something that will inspire me to write. But until then, I will keep looking for it.
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