41

How do you decide what to write about?

I recently got this question from a follower in my Instagram DMs, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Not because it’s not a worthy question — it is. And not because I didn’t want to help the person asking it — I did. But if they had known how very much this question has wrapped itself around my sternum and pulled me under for the past 12 months, they would have quickly found a more worthy inbox in which to pose their inquiry.

The fact is, I have no idea what to write about.

It’s not a feeling I’m used to. For most of the past ten years I’ve had more ideas than time. At one point I had a list of three books I wanted to write. Now none of them interest me. I pace the room like a caged animal, willing myself to create and coming up short. I wait for the muse. She peeks her head in to check, says I’m not ready yet.

Today is my 41st birthday.

It’s been a good year. It’s been a painful year. It’s been a surprising year. It’s been a grieving year. It’s been a year of growth, perhaps the most intense of my life, and if you’ve ever had one of those then you understand the wide swath of adjectives.

So what do I write about today?

I could tell you I spent the weekend alone at a cabin in the Driftless Region, trying to write a novel but mostly just watching the pair of Eastern bluebirds making a nest on the patio.

I could tell you how overwhelming it is to have five children; how loud, how exhausting. How sometimes I want to crawl under the couch and hide. How each one of the five is the most fascinating person I’ve ever met; how they shine, how they see. How I wouldn’t trade a single minute of their lives for all the peace in the world.

I could tell you how, on days like today, when its 70 degrees and sunny and I am surrounded by hills and have no responsibilities, I think maybe I don’t need goals at all. Maybe I don’t care about writing. Maybe it’d be enough to spend my life on a blanket in a sunny patch of grass.

I could tell you how my husband has started bringing me a cup of coffee in the mornings, and how I secretly always wanted him to but felt selfish asking. How the little act of voluntary kindness has brought tears to my eyes.

I could tell you I recently found out that I was born under a crescent moon, and that this information pleased me greatly. I’ve always wanted a favorite moon phase and now I have one.

I could tell you that I’ve never in my life had the kind of friendships I have right now. How I don’t know how I got so lucky. How I wish that everyone had what — who — I have.

I could tell you I’m beginning to understand that there is more magic in the universe, and in my own soul, than I ever imagined.

I could tell you all those things. But that would require writing and, you see, I don’t know what to write about.

With love from your 41 year old friend,

Shannon