Writing about Writing

Hello. This blog has been inactive for what... three years?

It's been inactive because I have been telling myself that I was ONCE a writer.

That young girl who filled up tiny memo notebooks with scribbled silly stories, she was a writer. In high school and college, that girl was a writer who filled journals with written prayers, existential grapplings (and also short stories for fun!)

That girl grew up and was paid to write as an intern copywriter/editor at the Youngstown Vindicator. At another job, real estate brokers paid that writer girl to write text for promotional brochures and 32-page long books used to sell fancy apartment complexes from one investor to another. Switched jobs and a staffing company paid her again to write proposals to win large long-term contracts.

In my spare time, the writer I once was wrote a few children's stories and made several goes at writing a memoir/roman-a-clef novel, half-dreaming of publication. That writer started this blog and once posted fairly regularly.

That's the writer I once was.

When I found out about my end-stage heart failure in 2014, I was definitely a writer.  I wrote about the ins and outs of that physical and spiritual journey before and after heart transplant. In that season, I also wrote and re-wrote tens of thousands of words of that pesky unfinished novel. The writer I once was self-published that novel here on Blogger (and then later, cringing, removed it).

So what happened?

The last few years have felt like groping through a dense forest. Caring for three high-needs kids with little respite. Trudging through the bureaucracy around special needs and accessing support—endless assessments, forms, meetings with an endless parade of strangers. Stumbling through a season of questioning my beliefs about grace-based parenting. Worrying about what kind of nation we live in. Doubting, not the Gospel, but the orthodoxy and faithfulness of the churches and parachurch organizations I once trusted.

I felt lost, and I slowly lost my belief that I had something worthwhile to say.

So, I stopped writing. I stopped thinking of myself as a writer entirely.

In the last six months, the forest has thinned out. There are meadows and space for my soul and imagination to breathe and make sense of where I have been and where I'm going. In concrete terms, that means that I switched up my antidepressant, the supports we trudged to access are in place, the therapies are paying off, and our household atmosphere is more peaceful and less chaotic. Most significantly, my youngest is in kindergarten.  Even my homeschooler has enrichment classes away from home two days a week. I suddenly have a luxury I've sorely lacked: stretches of time to spend alone or with friends.

Yesterday, my daughter wrote two sentences to start off a persuasive essay—about why everyone should have weekly dance parties—before asking if she could dictate the rest to me. Her hand muscles tire and cramp easily. Having a scribe is written into her IEP.

I am the scribe. Except it's SO HARD to just be the scribe.

Whenever she starts dictating, immediately a part of my brain kicks into gear, interpreting what she wants to say and generating possibilities for how *I* would word it. Writing and editing are my jam, baby.

I was once a writer? NO. I still AM a writer! So, I'll be writing. Stay tuned for more from this writer who writes about writing, about God's grace on display in this neurodivergent family learning to cope, to thrive and to embrace life with autism, ADHD, anxiety and depression.

Sincerely,
Magpie the Writer.