For many years, writing filled a gap in my life.
When they came into my life, the characters kept me company in the dark as I tried to fall asleep in my new apartment, totally alone for the first time.
Later, my brain explored their world as my body did physical tasks long since gone mindless. Their conversations kept me entertained through the boredom of lines, their adventures gave my mind a place to wander when it had nothing else to do.
A lack of challenge, a shortage of stimulation, led me to writing. A hobby soon grew, becoming a passion, and I was hooked.
For the past year, I’ve barely written. Blogs are sparse, characters are quiet, and it’s been perplexing to me. These are my children, this world one of my own making, a place I am always welcome. There are still lines to stand in, still quiet moments in the dark, still tasks that don’t require my brain. Where has the story gone?
This week I realized – the story is not gone, but the gap is no more. Those empty moments are now occupied with work, with stress, with the many things to which I’ve committed my time and energy. The chatter that filled my mind now dims in down moments; what was once a fairly level din is now peaks of intensity followed by valleys of quiet.
In searching for and finding a more challenging job, I fear I’ve reduced writing back to an occasional hobby. I’ll have to decide if I want to pursue ways to bring it back; perhaps I’ll find quiet moments again, as this job becomes more routine, and the characters will speak once more.