It has been awhile since I have written. I have been in the midst of a crazy season at work, which resulted in my taking a (brief) break from writing. Now, the craziness has subsided and there’s nothing standing in the way of my writing. Nothing but myself. And sometimes I am my own biggest distraction.
I don’t know what to write about. It’s as if all of my ideas have dried up. I have walked through this before. I have responded in a variety of ways. Lately, I have wracked my brain an idea. Any idea. Maybe a top ten list on why I hate dating top ten lists (it’s a bit meta, but it could work). Or perhaps I’ll read a bunch of blogs and get fired up about an issue of injustice.
I feel, at best, apathetic about these options. I am tired. And not just in one area of my life, but I feel wholly tired. I suspect this may be the source of my apathy. I always struggle to find the balance of rest and laziness. Sometimes I fear that I will cross the line into the land of laziness. Almost as if by engaging in rest I’ll suddenly end up like Shaggy from the Scooby Doo – the lovable loser who can be found on the couch, bag of potato chips close by. These imaginings say more about my own issues than reality.
Yet, being a writer involves actually sitting down and writing. I know that there is something good about creating – especially on days when the last thing I want to do is write. I am searching for a middle ground. I am searching for grace.
So, what does it mean for me to continue writing and yet to receive grace in my tiredness? I don’t fully know, but I suspect it may involve my allowing myself to write a post like this. A post that is more meandering. A post that is honest in ways that feel particularly uncomfortable. A post that is shorter. Perhaps next week I will feel inspired. Maybe I won’t. But despite my wavering interests and excitement, I chose to continue writing.