It was a quiet moment. The sibling groups were in sweet combinations, because I was left alone in my room to read for twenty minutes and do some writing. There was nary a knock nor squabble.
I felt grateful.
Part of the writing process is just doing it.
There is always a pile of excuses as to why I don’t have space, yet somehow I get drawn into passive scrolling on social media or sucked into other projects and time wasters.
Lately, though, my words have gone missing, and I feel stuck. I grab a few minutes here and there and . . . nothing.
It’s odd, really, the way I thought I would have all this time to write once school was out and I was home for the summer. I have time, yes, but inspiration and motivation now evade me. I feel empty.
Empty and quiet.
So that afternoon, when I sat smelling toast as the not-so-littles prepared themselves a favorite snack, I tried not to think about the damage to the kitchen. I soon realized it was a small price to pay for the quiet.
I didn’t realize it was also buying me future inspiration, that memory of smelling toast.