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So, checking my email this morning had a very Christmas feel. Not only did I discover that readers actually gobbled up last night’s literary milk and cookies, but they also rallied around me in a fit of support and praise. Yes, I received the festive gift of two positive comments and it’s not even noon yet!

I must admit, dear note-leaving souls, that your recognition of my most recent post has me floating on cloud nine.

Hello, Cloud Nine, it’s nice to see you again.

What? You’d like me to kick off my shoes and stay awhile? Don’t mind if I do.

Yes, I’d like to sunbathe here on cloud nine awhile. With you praise-givers around, it should be easy, right? Already this morning, you have prompted me to stop sweeping and start writing. Thank you. I only hope the momentum will last.

Still, I’m sure you’ve notice that my last three posts have all centered around my lack of inspiration, motivation, creative spirit. Needless to say, this shift is disconcerting and depressing. I’ve been busy, yes. But when have I not been busy? I will discuss the issue with my doc this afternoon, but I truly fear that the pharmaceutical leveling of my emotional dips and spikes is leaving me desperate and lacking.

Let me explain how it is that I operate:

Generally, I am in constant motion. With the rare exception of Savasana (corpse pose) after a vigorous session of yoga, either my body or my mind or both are continually racing. Sometimes, if my body or mind are really working it, then one or the other might take a little catnap. For instance, if I am truly dancing, dancing with my soul exposed, then I am able to escape my thoughts for awhile. If I am possessed by a vivid and fantastical day dream, I may find myself slumped over, staring trance-like at the living room blinds. (I am certain you have experienced the same.)

Usually, however, both my mind and my body are working in conjunction to get me to move, move, move and seldom sit idle. I am, right now for instance, typing at breakneck speed (well, not typing exactly: I hunt and peck with a wild woman’s fervor) whilst rapidly peddling my left leg, up and down, up and down, as if I my thoughts were somehow connected to an invisible peddle like that of an ancient sewing machine or a beautiful upright piano. I keep biting my lips and my heart is busily palpitating. I have electrical currents running up and down my spine.
Oh how I revel in these jittery, caffeinated, inspirational states.

After having Silas, I suppose I began climbing a steep, but slippery slope, in which I was practically in rapture, tongues of creative fire pouring down on me in torrential buckets. A small flicker of an idea would begin to smolder in my mind and then an inspirational breeze would come along and POOF! I’d be on fire. My skin tingling, my thoughts moving at Olympic speed, my breathing quick and wild. If Silas was napping, I would pound out my literary compositions with flare and gusto. If Silas was awake, I would strap him to my chest and sing and laugh and frantically tidy and talk my ideas aloud so that they wouldn’t fly away.It was perfect.

Except for the fact that I couldn’t feel my teeth.

Or sometimes my thighs.

I couldn’t organize my days.

Once darkness came, I had to obsessively create lists of things that I had accomplished so that I could convince myself that I was actually accomplishing something. If I didn’t feel like I had accomplished enough (writing two papers for my Master’s course, hiking three miles, writing two poems, washing the dishes, vacuuming, planting onions in the garden, and tutoring foster children from 6:00-9:30pm, all while tending to my newborn son never quite seemed like enough!) I would write lists of what I absolutely had to accomplish tomorrow and why I didn’t get enough done that day.

You see, I would be blanketed in creative fire and then I would just plain burn. Often turning to a pile of ashy mush crying on the bedroom floor.
Of course, I could not continue to live this way.

Still, I miss those fanatical days. The creativity was largely motivated by the insanity and perhaps the insanity by the creativity. Now, I am trying to find my medicated sea legs. It’s not so easy.

Yes, my priorities are clearer. My personal expectations have been whittled down to “reasonable” and I am not so damn hard on myself (or my husband). I would say that I am happier. And, thankfully, I can feel all of my body parts the majority of the time.

But, I am not as often swept up on a wave of passionate inspiration.

I am fearfully mediocre. (There’s that obsessiveness again.)

But, I was able to fly on an airplane with my son without nervously picking the skin from knuckles.

How do I strike a balance?

I will take any well-intentioned suggestions.

Thank you.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 5th, 2008 at 11:37 am and is filed under On Writing, Postpartum Bull Shit. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.