I am staring at the blank computer screen, having writer’s block. After three years of actively blogging I am stuck for a topic, even though my life is expansive on writing material. From my desk I can hear the birds chirping, the slight spring breeze wafts through my open window. My family is out for a quick journey. I have the time I crave to finally write. And I am stuck.
I think back to when I first started to write. My oldest was just a baby when I realized that I was approaching the age that my mother died. Not knowing her stories in her own words motivated me scribe mine, in case I had the same fate or if I forgot things. As the years pass fast being a mom there are minute details that have escaped me.
Writing also was a way to vent my isolation on being motherless, not having family to help the day-to-day and when my youngest was diagnosed with autism. Writing my blog began to bridge the gap that I felt. A void was there that slowly dissipated, especially when readers began to comment.
With a smile, I begin to type. I never profess to writing well or being a literary author. I write for my girls, other moms and most importantly for me. No one can tell my stories but me.
