Now that I am retired, I should have plenty of time to write, right?
Instead I find myself in the same situation as some of my retiree friends—not enough time to squeeze writing into my day! I used to get more writing done before my cancer diagnosis when I was working a full-time job than I do now that I don’t have to leave the house to go to work. Not sure how that happens but I am sure there is a scientific explanation. Or more likely a psychological one. I will admit that I am more interested in what I can do to fix up the house than I am in writing. You can’t imagine how many painting projects I could be working on. I blame this on the nesting instinct, fueled by HGTV. Unfortunately I am constrained by my physical and energy limits, by my intermittent nausea, by the pain in my right arm resulting somehow from my surgery, as well as in my side where my 14 inch incision is a reminder of the cancer.
As if I needed one.
But when I am honest with myself I know it is more than that. It’s something about being able and willing to share my feelings, to commit to paper the emotions lurking inside my mind and my heart. For even though I am writing fiction, I can’t avoid incorporating who I am—don’t I need to do that for my writing to be worth the reader’s time?–and right now that person is focused on her mortality. I just can’t bring myself to let those feelings out of seclusion.
Which leads me back to my question–if I am a writer, and I mean a real writer, shouldn’t I want/need/crave to do just that?