Stuck

As the days here in Western North Carolina keep steadily to the chill and gray of winter, and the bright rush of the holidays have faded and travel kept to a minimum, I'm tempted to do a bit of changing. My inclination now is to hibernate like a black bear, sated on early Autumn blueberries, but some things have occurred in my life that have overwhelmed my brain. I'm 13 weeks pregnant, and my muse is not my own anymore. Or, at least, it feels that way.

So, I'm thinking--God help us all--that I may change this blog to mainly a venue for my thoughts on creativity and writing, and on being pregnant. When I originally started "publishing" here, it was a way for me to keep in contact with family and friends while I was traveling for artist's residencies. Since then, it's evolved into more of a random forum on my life, and whatever I felt like posting at the time. That may still happen, as I am still the high priestess of random.

For the past two months, as I've contemplated actually being pregnant, and my body has been taken over by what my husband and I affectionately call "The Little Demon," I've been STUCK when it comes to my writing. I'd hate to call it writer's block, because that term has always seemed to me to be a bit self-prophetic, but that may be exactly what it is. For the first time in my life, I don't feel as connected to what I've always considered my artistic (and otherwise) purpose: telling as true, entertaining and lovely a story as I possibly can. My mind wheels from one stressful subject to another--from money (my husband just lost his job, I only have a part-time one, and things are downright scary), to holy motherf@#$%&, I'm going to be a mother?!, to why my novel hasn't been picked up by anyone for the the past year (and my agent, who is out of town, hasn't been in contact since I wrote him three weeks ago)--and all I seem to do is get caught up, ripped and bloody, in the damn spokes.

I will never be one of those women whose entire personal universe becomes colored by motherhood. I admire those women, especially now. But as I oscillate between a bit of awe and happiness at the prospect of having a baby, I'm also desperate to get back to the woman I was before... to that writer self who was never particularly focused, but who at least always had a plan.

I hate to say it, because I do feel that letting words out into the ephemera gives them power, but I am stuck. I'd been feverishly working on a new novel, very much in love with what I thought of as its premise, before that little pee stick read "pregnant." Now I'm doubting myself, uncertain of the path of its many-layered plot, and quite literally not sure whether I want to add supernatural elements or simplify the story in an attempt to reach more readers.

Some day, when I feel more confident and purposeful, I may post some chapters here, to see what folks think. Today, I'm going to attempt to concentrate on my craft, fight the pregnancy fatigue and hold the fears at bay.