Ha! I kill myself. Last January I said I was going to try to write everyday. And I do. I write Facebook posts, and papers, and replies to papers, and emails and sermons. But I don't write the things that are in my head, because I just don't have time.
I don't write about Japan and the earthquake and tsunami. I don't write about nuclear reactors and radiation leaking into the ocean. I don't write about how raising a teenage daughter is exhausting and eerily parallel to reliving one's own adolescence, except this time you don't get to have the fun of being devious and naughty before you get caught - you just get to be the bad guy.
I don't write about dealing with a child with ADHD or the way I feel about the school system (not good, if you don't already know). I don't write about my feelings on class warfare and immigration, or about being divorced and trying to co-parent effectively. I don't write about gender issues and being a woman in ministry.
I don't write (much) about being in the sandwich generation and what it means to have aging parents and to lose one. I don't write about my crazy dog who won't be housebroken and who chews up my theology books.
But these are just the tip of the iceberg of the things I'd write about if I only had time. I dream about them though. Last night I dreamt a whole sermon about "Being Heard," based purely on anecdotes about my teenager daughter and my dog.
But it's OK. This too shall pass. I love internship and ministry and school (though I swear I'm never taking another class from the Lutherans!). I just have so many things I think about and no time to write about, but they come out in sermons and essays and reflections and...just not here.
Ah, I feel better now :) I'm looking forward to August when I plan to reread every Stephen King book I own and go to the beach. Then I"ll write. Maybe.