I have 81 drafts in my inbox. Its been months since I published. I’ve watched them tick away. The desperation to write something, anything, keeps drawing me back to my keyboard night after night. I don’t know why I am bothering. Inspiration doesn’t strike.
Instead I tap away writing incoherent sentences, and leaving unfinished thoughts. Each in a separate document, on an unprinted page that taunts me from the line up.
The Line Up
Here is an unfinished three minute article on parenting. It seems like drivel when there are so many conflicting ideas being thrown into the stratosphere that is the internet. Dozens for every minute. What could I possibly have to say to add to it. Who am I kidding?! Parenting seems like a giant experiment to prove that no person could ever possibly be qualified or equipped to raise another human being. Yet we keep trying anyway.
Here is another on the reality of labeling. Who am I to write about that?! Bloody hell if I know who I am anymore: woman, wife… mother? A burnt out hot mess is probably the most accurate label I could have thrown at myself today. Two years of parenting, homeschooling and just doing general living in a pandemic hasn’t done me any favors. No matter how much I pretend that it might have.
There are dozens of started and unfinished ones on the psychology of loneliness. Others written about mental health. A topic that we don’t talk enough about. One that comes with far too much stigma and misinformation. I want to say more about it but then wonder who I am to say anything at all. Perhaps another label would help?
Then there are the lighter-hearted ones entitled, “Why Your Best Friend Should Not Be Your Therapist” and “Why ‘Please Prioritize Yourself’ Is Bullshit”. The ones where I try to be raw, droll and probably a little too honest. They sound weak to my ears, self deprecating and leave me wishing that I was a bit more funny.
The ‘untitled’ pieces are the worst ones. Proof that at the point of writing that I either lacked the ability to write a good heading, or truthfully had no idea what I was even writing about. More incoherent thoughts simply jumbled on a page. Notes really, ideas that were never finished. I would like to think I will open them…