You may recall that I’ve spent the better part of the last couple of months sailing a pink candy boat down a chocolate river in a room of pure imagination. And while I don’t miss dedicating my afternoons to kids I didn’t give birth to, but love anyway, I do miss having time set aside that forced my creativity.
You see, I have a really bad habit. I love the idea of being creative. I love writing. I love reading. I love watching a play morph each night into something different because the beauty of live theatre is you can never have it the same way twice.
But I’m awful about starting projects and then getting distracted and then never finishing and then feeling worthless about having started in the first place since I never seem to finish anything.
There’s the unhung frames in our office that I was supposed to order pictures for. The empty file boxes I bought to contain the girls’ plethera of art/school work. The 150 pages of a book I haven’t completed and to be honest I’m not sure is really going anywhere.
But in my imagination, these things are finished. Complete. What’s that like?
Actually, I do have one creative outlet that I hope I’ve maintained fairly well. You’re reading this blog, right?
And as for that book…well, I’ve told my students who are pretending they’re devastated I won’t be back next year, that I’m quitting so I can write a book. They think this is interesting and want to know if they’ll be in it. I smile demurely and say, “Of course.” Which makes that conversation and binding contract because middle schoolers forget their homework, their locker combinations, and their backpacks, but they remember promises. Which might be just the motivation I need to actually finish something I start.