Writer’s Block

Yes, I have been blocked, and for good reason. Scratch that – for the worst reason.

This is the first thing I have written, outside of work, in 10 months. The last thing was an obituary.

My father died on March 18, 2015 after a six month struggle with pancreatic cancer. He was 50 years old.

He missed my son’s first birthday. He missed my younger sister’s wedding. The list of things he has missed is long and ever growing and sometimes I think it might strangle me in my sleep.

So surely, no one could blame me for being blocked. The words just dried up. I have truly been fearful of blogging, journaling, anything that might open doors I was not ready to face.

After dad died, I rooted myself in the tasks at hand: memorials and condolences, death certificates and estate laws, helping my mother sell the house and move.

I was “taking care” of everyone, a state of avoidance which left no time for indulging in Pinterest crafts or recipes or shiny-happy musings on life.

Don’t get me wrong, I have grieved. I have cried and sobbed, unable to swallow or speak or stop the tears. I have acknowledged the triggers that make life after loss such a minefield: a song, playing my favorite sport, certain movies, and the damn On This Day function of Facebook. I have conquered a lot of milestones but writing was my albatross.

I think I knew how final it would feel to write this all down. Just as New Year’s Day was infinitely harder to face than Christmas because 2016 would be the year he never saw any part of…

But a lot of people, my father included, would never forgive me if I continued to languish, or more honestly procrastinate.

Both my parents have always supported my writing. They seemed to think I was clever and funny, listened to my stories, and were interested in my opinions, naive and half-formed as they were.

They made me feel that I had a unique voice and the world needed to hear me.

The fact is I have lost a great deal in a short amount of time, but my writing does not have to be one of those losses.

So I will start small, stretching these stiff writing muscles, and perhaps in the process take down some other blocks, open some doors, and reclaim my shiny-happy point of view.



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