It’s not writer’s block that has prevented me from posting in this space. Up to this point, it has simply been change.
When I posted the blog prior to this one, it was Thanksgiving 2015. At that time, we were staying in my dad’s condo in Northeast Fort Collins. We had virtually just landed; had just uprooted our lives from our home of ten years, a place of dramatic beauty, where we had been happy. We led simple lives there, but had struggled as well. The struggle led us away, to the outside world, and we left our home behind to make a new one.
But when I posted in late 2015, we didn’t yet have a place we could call our own. We were waylaid in my dad’s basement, and I was starting a job hunt. Three months after that paella Thanksgiving; after a failed interview process with Gannett, the media machine out of D.C. that runs The Coloradoan here in town; I started a job at a publishing outfit. It is a corporate gig, and far outside the vocational comfort zone I had established in Teton Valley.
Between small business employment and freelance work, I was cobbling it together back on that high altitude island. But the new gig presents a different universe. It is full circle from the corporate experience that I had established prior to our dropping out of the rat race. Almost immediately upon accepting this new job, I was succinctly reminded of why we had dropped out to begin with.
No, Fort Collins, Colorado is not Seattle, or Saint Louis, or Minneapolis. But my return to the cubicle farm was enough to make me question our decision to leave “poverty with a view” and think, “No I didn’t have medical benefits. But did I have high level job stress?” The new role drained me of all energy to create.
Did I have writer’s block? I don’t know. What I do know is that I believe that writer’s block is the presentation of a deep desire to write, but you consistently fail to find a starting point. I had no desire to write.
I journaled. I wrote letters. I dipped my toe into my new community’s farm-to-table movement. But could I write? Could I give myself an assignment and stick to it? Could I ever consider pursuing freelance work again?
I remember promising myself to write about the Women’s March on Denver. A once-in-a-lifetime experience that fed so much of my soul, I failed to follow through with thought to paper. (Yes I write long hand before I type a blog post. Deep down, I am far more analog than digital.)
I am a human who takes her time processing. The change in circumstance to our lives, and the deep commitment that I have to ensuring my nine to five is a successful endeavor, does not lend itself to my wanting – or even attempting – to write. But the question of when I will finally start creating again surfaces in my own mind whether I like it or not. I will wonder when I will start again, all along knowing that I will have to, eventually.
Here is how it stands: my job is a time suck, but now is always the time to work the creative muscle. My employer has provided me with some opportunity to cover their wheelhouse, and I have grown beyond the love/hate toward my corporate environment, and stand (most days) on the side of love, as my teammates are creative, quirky crazies who dig yarn. They entertain me constantly.
But the first step is to try, and here I am doing just that.