A Writer Who’s Not Writing

Is there any pain quite so poignant as the experience of not doing what you feel in your bones you were born to do?

For the last month I’ve been so preoccupied with teaching a short course at university and trying to keep on top of my business commitments, that my writing practice has slipped. And yes, I tell myself that it’s ok. That these things happen. That sometimes life gets in the way. That all of life is a cycle and that my writing practice will return. Nothing is ever truly lost…

But that doesn’t lessen the tug I’ve felt on my heart, or soothe the ruffled feathers of my imagination, or ease the twitch in the small bones of my right hand… my write hand. Words stay grounded, leaden weights tethering them to the earth as their wings flutter impatiently. Born to fly. Born to swoop. Born to soar. Born to glide, graceful in skies of silver grey, charcoal, ivory, splices of cerulean.

It feels like it’s time to surrender to flight – to write.

It’s time to let myself do what I was born to do…