Author: Leah Didisheim
So, I’m sitting at my desk, looking at the blank page, right. I’ve waited all week for this. The house is clean. I’ve finished my readings for next week. I’ve done all the chores I could possibly think of, just to have this additional hour to finally, finally write. It’s my passion. What I want to do with my life. I shouldn’t struggle so much to do it, right? And it’s not like I don’t have the ideas. I have them. I’ve been on the second draft of my novel for forever. And then. Then there’s this other novel I’ve put on the side for so many years. This one novel that makes me want to cry. Because I’d stopped doing it purposely. She could never leave me if I didn’t finish it right? Because she was eternal. That’s right. You heard it. And it’s not like I believe in this stuff you know. I’m quite realistic. But she was supposed to be eternal. So it didn’t matter if I didn’t finish interviewing her about her incredible, no, extraordinary life and did my other book in between. Because she’d still be here after. Except she’s not. She left me before I could finish it. I mean I have enough stuff to keep going, but can I? I haven’t even been able to talk at her funeral. For god’s sake she was supposed to have ten more years. Her mum died at 105 years old. And she was only 95. And still living alone in a house with stairs. Why did she want to go? Of course I understand, Grandma. Yes, I get it. Grandpa hasn’t been here for a while. Your siblings left before you. And you hate dependence. I get that there wasn’t really any other option but to leave those still here. But I guess I am mad. Because I wanted her to see more. I wanted her to be there at my wedding. And see my first child. She saw my cousins’ children. Why not mine? It’s unfair. But to be honest, that’s not even what I’m mad at. I guess I’m mad because she didn’t realise it was hurting us. I guess I’m mad because she didn’t realise we loved her. Maybe she couldn’t. She just expected we’d feel like she felt towards her parents and her grandparents. But it’s your fault if we didn’t, grandma. I guess you shouldn’t have created this family if you didn’t want us to care.
So, no. I can’t bring myself to write. Because there are always more important things to do. There are always things that need to be done. I’m sick of being an adult I guess. Everything else makes me put my one passion to the side. Maybe I do it on purpose you know. Self-sabotaging. It’s easier than to fail right? Bullshit I know. But if it’s not compulsory, I don’t know what to write. And I know I write well. Discipline sucks. My brain sucks. I can’t get to stop overthinking everything. Like I cannot take a break without thinking about everything else I have to do. And you know, it’s not like I don’t have other stuff. I have uni. Theatre. Associative work. Laundry. Feeding myself. Sleep. Giving classes. Sports. Where am I supposed to find the time to write 500 words a day?
Look at that. 569 words. I guess I just did.