Writing has always been my biggest outlet. Something I enjoyed. A way to vent. For me, it's like breathing, not something I consciously do but I need it to live.
For whatever reason I'm not feeling it right now. Every time I sit down to write, it's not there. Probably in part because I don't know whether I'm Arthur or Martha at the moment. I feel like I'm chasing my tail, lots of action but not actually getting anywhere.
The house is a wreck. I looked at the kids this morning and I feel like I'm really letting them down. They are not the happy little vegemites they should be. I glimpsed myself in the review mirror and saw a mess. The basics are missing – good food, adequate sleep, time to breath. Everything feels rushed.
So starting now, everything goes out the window. Fill the kids bellies with good food. Laugh with them. Attempt to get some sleep for us all. (The broken sleep is awful. The musical beds drives me crazy.)
Hopefully the writing will follow.