Art-Killing

I shouldn’t be writing right now. I should be mopping the kitchen floor (no idea when I last did it—it’s been months). Or folding laundry (always an option). Or Christmas shopping. (Will someone please tell me why oh why it’s December and I haven’t even started yet? I’ve known my baby’s due date since June. And since I’ll be 38 weeks pregnant on Christmas this year, you’d think I would have tackled my list back in September. But since I’ve put it off this long, I might as well embrace my procrastination by doing it a bit more.)

All that to say, there are many productive things I could be doing right now.

But I was listening to some old Florence + the Machine on a rare trip to the store by myself and it made me feel very awake. And I started thinking about you little blog, and how much I love to write, but rarely manage to do it these days. And suddenly I felt inspired to come up out of the vortex of potty training and Veggie Tales and just a general stickiness, and try to put my thoughts into words that might be suitable for another adult to read.

In my current life stage, it’s been helpful to take the pressure off myself in every possible area. Things I used to do every day—like wash my hair—are now every other day. Things I used to do once a week—like write for my blog—I do… well, almost never. When Sky and Micah were younger, I had a lovely 2-hour block of time to myself every afternoon while they napped. Autumn, now 21 months, is still at prime napping age. But between Sky’s homeschooling and Micah’s acrobatics (I often come in after his required “rest” time and find him standing on his head or hanging one-armed from his bunk bed, kicking the wall), that long, silent afternoon stretch has sadly evaporated.

I do still have time to myself, especially when I wake up early or stay up late. But I mostly get little bits of it. When I’m partially asleep. Not exactly the best conditions for writing.

But it doesn’t really matter all that much if I write, does it? I mean, does the Internet really need more words? There are so many wonderful writers putting out high-quality stuff every day. What’s the point in trying to add my thoughts into the mix?

But earlier this week I read Shauna Niequist’s take on that very question: art-killing, she calls it. Because art is not a business. “It’s not about market demand,” she writes. “The general population will survive without one more stage production and one more gallery showing. This is the thing, though: you might not.” Our God is the Ultimate Creator, and though it’s sometimes hard to believe, we are like Him. “If you were made to create,” Niequist says, “you won’t feel whole and healthy and alive until you do.”

No, I’m not going to be writing regularly again. Lord willing, in a few short weeks I’ll be heading back into the abyss of life with a newborn, a magical place where I’ll be up all night with my baby and up all day with my toddler, preschooler, and kindergartener. I’ll be doing well just to keep all those little tummies full and bottoms clean. Beyond that I have no personal goals.

But at some point down the road, an idea will hit me. And I’ll scratch together a few minutes to stand at the counter, type it all out on my laptop, and maybe even share it. Not necessarily because a bunch of people need to read it. But because God created me to love writing and I am somehow more myself when I do it.