Eight, I counted. Eight blog posts in 2020. All the time in the world with nowhere safe to go, an endless barrage of topics, and I have never written less.
Maybe I was traumatized by the pandemic or the litany of lies we tell ourselves as a nation. Maybe I struggled to get over surviving and living in my altered body. Maybe I was lazy, bored, or depressed.
But somehow, amid similar reasons and excuses, lots of people wrote last year. They took to their keyboards to document an unprecedented time, share tips and tricks, or eloquently vent. Writers wrote last year, and I was not one of them.
What do I do with that? What does it mean?
On the surface, it means I must not be a writer. If the fire of expressing myself through words wasn’t alive in the year 2020, then I’m clearly broken.
If I were a writer, silly anecdotes about lockdown or my adventures with bread would have flown from my fingertips on the daily. My posts would have brought insight, made people laugh, maybe even inspired.
And yet, my rough manuscript waits patiently for edits, and my laundry room called to me this morning. I have written, so I must be a writer.
Where the hell was I in 2020, the year of toilet paper shortages and the unthinkable? I don’t get writer’s block. I don’t believe in it.
These thoughts woke me up this morning, along with how many other Christmas presents I put in the wrong box for my oldest.
Why didn’t I write in 2020? I don’t know.
What I do know is that I have never felt smaller, more disenchanted, or ill-equipped to do anything other than play computer backgammon or catch fish on my Animal Crossing island than I did last year.
What about that? I could have written about struggles others may have shared, but I didn’t.
I’m disappointed that I could not rise to the occasion, to fill my laundry room with glimpses of my time, thoughts, and perspective. That instead of pushing through and finding the words, doing the work, I told myself what I wasn’t enough.
Huh. Well, it’s a new year. I gave up resolutions as a resolution years ago, but I’m feeling ready to do what I do again.
For now, that will have to be enough.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Get out of bed.