Letter to My Writing, 1997

Dear Writing,

Running into you last night was wonderful. I could hardly believe we were together again. It felt just like old times. But this morning I woke up feeling exhausted and frightened.  

Writing, what are you doing here? Why have you come back into my life? You know I don’t want you here — I’ve told you that a hundred times. Why don’t you leave me alone?

It’s true that you once meant a great deal to me. I remember how passionate I was about you — how excited, how hopeful, how connected you made me feel. I wanted you so desperately that I tried everything I could think of to make our relationship work.

But it was impossible. I was so young and I didn’t know how to handle you. Whenever I gave myself to you, I was miserable — full of doubt and fear and loneliness.

Writing, I had to leave you. I had to make myself another life, a life without you. I know I should have told you this last night, but I couldn’t bring myself to spoil our brief time together — I’m married now. I have two children, a house, and a garden. I volunteer in my kids’ schools. I’ve joined a synagogue. And I have all of the responsibilities that go with these things, all the laundry and errands and phone calls; all the playdates and doctor’s visits and gymnastics classes. The list is always long, the calendar is always full. And every night there are the dirty dishes, the scattered toys, and my husband hoping I’ll come to bed early.

Still, I can manage it all, if I’m really organized and I sleep an hour or so less every night than I should. Now and then I can even find a little time to exercise or visit a friend or read a novel. I can manage it, that is, if you’re not around.

With you around, the things that fill my life don’t seem like enough. I start to think that I should be doing more — I should be spending time with you. You make me feel like my ordinary, everyday life and work don’t really count, that you’re the only thing that can make my life meaningful, give me work to do that is mine alone.

I don’t like this, Writing. I don’t want you to make my life seem unimportant.  The work I do now is necessary and full of meaning. To do it well takes all the intelligence and passion I can muster. Yes, there are times when it seems boring, even deadening. But there’s so much that I love about it. I may not be living the life we once imagined, but I’m often content.

If I let you back into my life now, I’m afraid you would ruin everything. You would pressure me with demands I cannot meet. You would fill my mind with guilt and conflict and longing. You would haunt me to the point where I could never relax, never enjoy myself, never goof off.

But I do miss you, Writing. I miss the way you made my brain hum, the way you pushed me and pleased me. The things we did together made me believe that I was creative, expressive, even talented. I remember how you used to whisper that we’d always be together, that we were born to be together. But how, Writing, how?  

If I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that nothing will ever take your place.  But what you have to understand is that nothing will ever take the place of my children, either. If there’s any hope of you and me being together, it doesn’t lie in my running away with you to some quiet cottage by the ocean, as you’ve suggested. I’m afraid you’d have to move in here. My husband wouldn’t mind. He longs for my happiness as much as I do.  But you wouldn’t be able to lounge around in my study all day. You’d have to come with me when I’m carpooling and emptying the dryer and talking to my mother on the phone.  You’d have to sit beside me when I’m playing cards with my daughter and stand next to me when I’m catching my son at the bottom of the slide.

And you’d have to be very patient, because I’m pregnant again.

All my love, Karen