“Don’t you feel more energized now, on your own?” my friend asks.
“I was writing more when I was married.”
After Adam and I separated, I was sucked into a whirlpool of switching schools, looking for work, and moving my house of seven years.
Sidenote: My new neighbours are building a fence on the boundary. WTF? It's taking a long time, and apparently it's still not quite finished. I feel like Peter Mayle, except nobody is speaking French, or inviting me to lunch.
So now I’m treading water. I'm not writing, or writing very little. My two big projects are on hold. I spend my days looking after Seven, driving here and there, doing laundry, making dinners, avoiding friends, falling into bed. Instead of writing, I think about cleaning my house. I should unpack those boxes, clean the oven, wash the windows.
Not writing is agreeable. Pleasant. No rush to drop off Seven at school, so I can meet a (self-imposed) deadline. No struggle to write after Seven goes to sleep.
Not writing is nice. Maybe I will get a job in an office.
Except I feel guilty for not writing. I'd like to enjoy floating on the surface, but I'm jealous of others’ achievements. I resolve to be more ambitious. I really need to make some money.
Anyway, maybe I am depressed. Divorce is confusing. (So is living in New Zealand.)