I have an aversion to writing at the moment. A childish rebellion against the "shoulds" of record keeping instead of looking forward to my nightly catharsis. It makes me feel guilty and niggly, the exact same emotion I felt when I knew I was disappointing my parents, but I still haven't been able to muster enthusiasm.
In some moments I've felt magnanimous and deigned to open the link to post a new blog and trailed off, bored, uninspired or simply just feeling narky at the requirement. Which is an unhealthy thing to feel and it always reflects in my writing. The words become clunky, the similes vulgar and the prose flows like rapidly setting concrete. Which is unforgivable as my life is anything but prose at present, but I always write the dream better than the reality.
Things are hectic at the moment as we get ready to move, complicated by the constant night wakings and the joys of dealing with the attitudes and fragile rationality of preschoolers. I had had enough this morning at 5am after being awake for several hours and thrust the wriggling, non-sleeping, babbling Possum at Bingley and asked him to deal with it and please let me sleep... my usually benign husband however SUCKS at predawn gallantry and proceeded to put the Possum in his bed - an action which resulted in his babbling/grizzling morphing into angry wails of protest. Soothing n'est-ce pas? Especially when his hammock is literally a foot from my head. After about 2 minutes of the cacophony it was clear that the snoring Bingley was nto going to come to my aid and I got up and watched morning TV with my eyes hanging out of my head.
By 3pm this afternoon I was absolutely ragged, and glancing at myself in a shop window as I picked up bread while the Elfling did ballet, the Monkey running in circles around my feet and the Possum again squalling, I was embarrassed to be out in public. With my bloodshot eyes, undone bra (really not a good look to have lopsided boobs), haphazard hair and mismatched clothes I could have auditioned convincingly as a troll at any dirty bridge near you. I was also in a FOUL temper as I drove home with the girls having a whining argument in the back seat. I had a target for all my tired, bottled up petulance though: Bingley. Bingley who gets to run out the door every morning at a ridiculous hour leaving me in the chaos. Bingley who had not saved me in my moment of distress in the predawn hour. Bingley who impregnated me 3 times! Blast him.
I started plotting my ice queen passive aggressive steeliness for the evening, what I was going to say/not say etc (oh yes, I can be incredibly vindictive with my adored one, if one is taken to the land of hysterical tiredness). How I was going to be aloof and cool and not be anything like the sweet little wife he is used to coming home to... Right up until I pulled the car into the drive way and saw the giant Roses Only box on the doorstep. Red Ones AND with chocolate... Touché Bingley, touché.
So here I sit now, still needing to write about milestones and happiness and rainbows and bitching instead. It's sad but true that I write so much more easily when vexed. The Possum is not himself and I can't work out if it's just because he is due for his weekly ablutions or if he's unwell, or if it's just one of those post-newborn serendipities. The problem is that for every fit of pique, of genuine outrage, there is an eye scrunching smile and a dopey cuddle that takes the wind out of my sails and reduces me to a quivering puddle of goo. I do wish he would poo though.
I've also been feeling fidgety and in need of a creative outlet. I read voraciously at the moment and crave the clever and the beautiful and piquant and the erotic when it is captured in prose. I love blogs and secrets and lies and reading the innermost thoughts of others - like Post Secret and Melissa and Mary's secret blog (though no one is submitting any more... Come on people, surely you have a secret! At this rate I'll have to write something!). I'm also tinkering with the ideas of writing something else, something a little less self indulgent than a blog and something more along the lines of proper fiction. And maybe, um, seeing if other people would like to read it (please don't shoot this shattered little ego monkey down in flames just yet!).
Anyhow, that is quite enough rambling for tonight. I'll try and get my mojo back, even I'm beginning to miss me a little bit.