Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's called 52 Mondays and I don't even know how many Mondays are left in the calendar year, because I have seriously lost count.
I lost count, because I stopped writing.
I stopped writing, because I lost my framework.
I lost my framework, because I lost my muse.
I lost my muse, because I lost my rant.
I lost rant, because I lost my soapbox.
My soapbox was my last year of being an executive and I was going to preach about bureaucracy and the injustices of being a corporate executive, woman, and a working mother, blah blah blah.
So is there anything left to write about?
I was writing to keep my sanity as I came to the end of what was an all consuming, constantly stressful, relentless grind of a career. I thought if I could just find the humor in it all, it would make the last leg of the marathon easier. I was about to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
But the light came sooner than expected... and I am now free.
Maybe it's like childbirth, once it's over you forget about the pain. It suddenly seems "not so bad." Then again, I had epidurals during all three of my childbirths, so maybe that is not the best analogy.
But I wonder if being happy means not having anything to say?
Is creativity mutually exclusive to happiness?
Let's hope not.