Where Have You Been?

The days are getting longer and brighter, and as I finished work in my tiny home office the other day, where my desk is positioned directly beside a large window, I realized that it was still light out. I had worked into the evening, and there was still daylight, and (not coincidentally, I’m sure) I still had some vague dregs of motivation to do something.

Where have you been? I whispered to my absentee inspiration. I thought you were dead.

Seasonal depression is no joke. Weather-wise, it may not have appeared to be much of a winter this year. We’ve all heard the comments about how easy a winter we’ve had, how good the roads have been. Concerns about our broken planet aside — this post is not about that — winter has very much been wintering when it comes to the darkness, the dreariness, the short days, the lack of desire to do anything but curl up under a duvet and sleep until things get a little brighter (both metaphorically and literally).

This winter has been especially tough, and I’ll merely scratch the surface here because it’s too painful, too raw. If you’ve been following me for any amount of time, you’re likely aware that my father has slow-progressing ALS. In December, he had surgery to insert a PEG feeding tube, and an ensuing infection very nearly took him from us. He is relatively stable now, but it was a massive dose of ugly reality, and it has made the inevitable seem far too real, too close. There are hard days ahead. There is no happy ending.

Writing hasn’t just taken a backseat. Writing fell out of the car five or six rest stops ago and is wandering along the highway with its thumb out, hoping for someone who is actually heading its way.

Where have you been?

It’s not entirely an issue of a lack of time. After all, I’ve had time to scroll all the way to the end of TikTok, my TV playing The Office in the background for the fourth time. I’ve had time to send ridiculous reels and memes to the same three people at [redacted] a.m. when I know I should be sleeping, not basking in the blue light of more pointless content.

No, the problem is not necessarily a lack of time; the problem is the lack of mental and emotional energy. The well is dry. The cup is empty. I haven’t even been able to muster the focus to read lately, let alone turn my mind to being actively creative myself. I mean, it’s still in there, that little spark of creativity. I spent many of those long waiting-in-the-hospital hours doodling in a sketchbook, copying geometric patterns and zentangles, losing myself in the mindless repetitiveness of line after line after line.

But the words. The words have left me. Or I left them?

Writing requires a certain willingness to tap into one’s emotions. Stories need to have emotional truth. They need to be relatable. They need to be human. But how can I open that box when I’m scared to face what’s in it? What if it can never be closed? What if every painful, raw, tragic feeling I’ve locked away out of sight comes flooding out, and I drown in the waves? What if looking one tiny emotion in the eye unleashes an overwhelming, insatiable tide of reality that I can’t defeat? No. NO. Better to keep that danger under lock and key.

I have often, through the years, used writing to process anything and everything I’m going through. Turns out, some things, in some seasons, are too heavy even to put into words.

Is there a point to my ramblings today? If there is, it’s that it’s okay to take a break. Life is hard. Things are complicated. We’re all tired.

I’m not any less a writer because I took some time away, whether it was intentional or involuntary. I still see new characters in the grocery store line. I still feel a poem when I walk along the shore. I still invent a plot from every tiny mystery. I still have a manuscript just waiting for me to be ready to pick up a red pen.

Where have you been?

It has been a long hiatus, and I’d like to be able to say that I’m fully back, but maybe this is what it is now. Maybe writing will come in dribs and drabs for now. Maybe at the moment, I can’t sustain consistency and will have to content myself with Doing What I Can^TM. Maybe that’s enough.

It seems to me that writing isn’t just about putting words on the page; it’s about embracing the ebb and flow of creativity, knowing that inspiration will return when the time is right. It’s a journey of resilience, chock full of challenges and setbacks.

So, to all my fellow writers, it’s okay to take a break. Life is a marathon, not a sprint; sometimes, we need to pause and catch our breath. And who knows, maybe in those moments of rest, we’ll find the spark that ignites our next big story.

Where have you been? Maybe the answer is simply, Right here, waiting for the next page to turn.