Our backyard is littered with old bikes. And scooters. All left out in the rain to rust. Unused, neglected. The vehicles the kids actually use are, to my never ending annoyance, stored at the front door, shoved into the small space next to the stairs.
This space was supposed to house the perfect entryway system, the wooden bench and coat stand with hooks for bags. The sort of furniture found in the Pottery Barn catalogues I pour over with a feeling that is not far off lust, and then reluctantly consign to the supersized recycling bin.
Over the past few months my writing muscle has become increasingly rusty, left out in the rain while I do other things. Mostly that other thing, that space normally reserved for writing, has been reading as I play catch up in my attempt to reach my #52books52weeks goal (see sidebar).
And now that I am all caught up, about to hit the 44th book read in the 44th week of 2013, I feel ready to bring the writing back inside out of the rain. In between reading everything from literary blockbusters like Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch and Elizabeth Gilbert's The Signature of All Things to catching up on books that have been collecting dust on my actual (and virtual) bookshelves for longer than seems fair, I want to clear some space for my own words. Not because they are anything special, but because I miss them, the process of stringing words into sentences and sentences into paragraphs, of every now and again coming up with something that on re-reading makes my heart sing.
So I am starting here, sitting up in bed on a school morning - with nothing but the gentle breathing of the sleeping child beside me to interrupt my thoughts - ignoring the long list of 'shoulds', carving out some space for this. For writing.