Labor Pangs.

I haven’t written in a long time. Part of the reason is because the longer the space is between writing, the harder it is to remember how to write. Of course I know how to write, I don’t forget the basic tools of putting letters into words, words into sentences. The longer I go without writing formally, the harder it is to get used to turning vague thoughts into comprehensive ideas, feelings into poetry. I may remember how to write, but without practice I forget how to write well.

I know without practice anything can be forgotten. My brother, the ballet dancer, will tell me of how his body aches when he dances if he has even a day without practicing. Only a few days without dancing, and his muscles begin to heave a sigh of relief and sink into flaccidity. My sister, the pianist, will go a week without practicing, and her fingers will fumble over simple scales. I, the writer who has not written in months, feel words coming to me more slowly, slogging through dreamy haze before their arrival on page.

Still, I want to write, because the unborn fetuses of thoughts and feelings are piling up in my brain, yearning for birth as ideas and poems. I feel heavy with all that is unsaid, and must (as my brother must dance and my sister must play) write again.