fewer words. please.

writing on not writing

I love writing. I love literature. Substack is great. I love community. Usually I don’t mind gift-guides. Tell me your top ten. Give me your end of the year lists, sure. But I think I’ve suffered a break. In the middle of the night I rock with baby for hours, wondering what the point of all of this is. I don’t think I know how words work anymore.

Could I write about the anxiety-ridden last two weeks pregnancy? Yes. Could I write about the unmedicated labor and delivery of my son? Yes. Could I write about the harrowing days of early motherhood? Yes. The sensory deprivation room I sat in all summer? Yes. Could I write about the identity crisis that comes from breaking your body in half? The animalistic possessiveness I feel over the bags of pumped breast milk in the freezer? Yes. Returning to work full time and questioning the very fabric of our society and social expectations? Yes. Relationships? Marriage? Creative doubts? Yes. The way my heart hurts when my son picks up his favorite toy—a block with the face of a bear? How homesick I feel? How unsure? How lonely? Yes. How much I miss the feeling of writing a perfect sentence? How utterly beautiful the blue snow is outside my window? How boring and cliché that last sentence was? Could I write for eternity about how simple and tender my love is for my son? Yes.

I’m not ready to do any of that yet. There are even too many words floating around here; too much clutter. I don’t think I know how the world works anymore.

God. The words. They pile up. For what? For who?

Instead, here are some images.

In no particular order.

Just random things.

Life here.

Now.