I feel so relieved right now. I managed to write over 1,600 words last night for an ongoing novel of mine. And then I laid down to read someone else’s words in a novel. It really struck me hard.
The novel (the one I’m reading, not the one I’m writing) is about a 45 year old wife whose entire life is and has always been about her family. She wants desperately to paint, for her art to be taken seriously, and for her family to give her at least a little acknowledgement that art might be more than a therapeutic hobby. I’ve only finished up to chapter 3, so I don’t know what else she has going on, but I do know that I was surprised to have found myself relating.
I’m sure you can, too, especially if you have more than one child.
At first, I thought to myself, “I’m not sure why I’m relating to her; I don’t have multiple children, I haven’t been married for twenty years, and I do find time for myself.”
But it hit me: I have time for me, but I don’t spend that time doing what I love. Which is writing (what I want to write).
I blog here, I have another anonymous blog, I freelance as a writer, and I also make it a point to journal. So why, after all this writing, do I still sometimes feel I never get to write? I feel as though it’s because I’m either afraid to write what I actually would love to read, or because I feel it’s worthless due to the idea that it has no tangible value on my home.
All the other forms of writing I do creates value. Some brings money, some builds a brand, some helps me get my thoughts together before I start another busy day of homemaking. And yet, the one writing I find myself most attracted to and most unconvinced to indulge in, is the one I love the most: fiction writing.
Over the past year that my husband and I have been living together, I’ve convinced myself that novel writing is a distraction to my home, it’s unfruitful, and it’s just another vain pleasure I waste time with. A friend, whose a fellow homemaker, once reminded me last year though, that I need to enjoy things even if they don’t produce anything.
Of course I want my novel writing to produce something, preferably a book. But sometimes I write fictional short stories, poems, or drabbles that obviously are just for the sake of expression. Somehow I could understand this concept if it applied to any other hobby, like basketball, knitting, or baking. Some people do these things just because they enjoy doing them, and don’t make a big deal out of it. Why then do I trivialize that I love writing?
What is it that you enjoy? Painting, reading, sewing? Do you even know? When was the last time you did it? And when is the last time you did it out of pure enjoyment?
I don’t mean sewing a dress to sell, but sewing a dress just to sew. I don’t mean reading a book to review or check off your 2022 reading list, but reading a book because you love it.
For the first time in a long while, last night I wrote fictional words just because I love writing. Almost 2,000 words. No, it’s not a finished body of work, no it’s not polished, and no I wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing it (yet). But I do see some other fruit: I feel less tense, I feel heard and seen, and I’ve got my writing bug back.
Sometimes we lose our drive or passion for things we love. For lack of time, appreciation or other reasons. But I’ve found that doing what I love doesn’t have to be about any other reason than expression or for the sake of having an outlet. People don’t need to appreciate it, heck I don’t even need to appreciate it. I just need to do it, because I want to. Because if I don’t, the urge to create won’t just die inside of me– it will fill me like water in a balloon until I pop.
Don’t let pinned up creativity or desire pop you. Make time for what you love, even if it’s not valuable or appreciated by others. As wives and mothers, we often forget about ourselves. Put ourselves in the background. And bury our passions by convincing ourselves we don’t have time. But we do.
I realize I was having time to myself, but it wasn’t quality time. Because even my quality time needed to be fruitful and beneficial to my family. No more of that. No more spending my me-time trying desparately to do what I love only if it makes money. That’s a repackaged form of capitalism, except I’m both the capitalist and the product. This can’t be.
My whole life isn’t about work. As a homemaker, we work where we sleep, so we often blur the lines between labor and leisure. But I’m encouraging you to being intentional about setting aside time for yourself, and making sure that time is spent actually doing what you love.
