Again, I drop in to visit this page after ages of neglect. This time, though, it feels different. I feel like I'm standing in a giant empty room of sorts. Like a huge amphitheater that was once a great and happeneing place. I'm standing here, on the stage, looking out on rows of empty seats, talking to myself. I think maybe in some ways that's better. A few people might wander in now and then, but mostly I think it's just me, pouring out words to nobody in particular...

I'm wondering on my desire to write, lately more than ever. It's this thing before me, dangling just out of reach. It's clear to me that I want to write - and badly. I know that because every thought I have of myself doing so causes a stirring of anticipation and excitement and... RIGHTness... within me. It doesn't matter how long I go without writing. A single thought about it causes a rush of emotion that I consider a blatant affirmation that this is what I want to do.

But where is my story? I have bits and pieces of several, some of which I have been toying with literally for YEARS, but none of them pan out into anything. One in particular I have been writing and re-writing and staring at since I was about 13 or 14. The problem with staying with something that long is that you grow so incredibly tired of it. I literally dread the thought of opening that file and trying to add to it. What I've written is such an insignificant part of the whole that I see every bit of it EVERY time I open the file, and I'm literally sick of looking at it. I feel like I've disconnected myself from it, like it's no longer a part of me as it once was. That story has left me. Why, if I hate it so much, does that make me a little sad?

And, if my longest running idea is dead to me, what now? How is it that I feel such an overpowering desire to write, yet I can't bring myself to sit down and WRITE? Self-deprecation. I have no formal writing education, aside from the odd writing class in high school and college. Obviously, this means that I have no idea what I am doing, and that means that nobody will ever want to read anything I write. Why do I care if anyone reads it? Ultimately, we should all be writing for ourselves, right? I think anyone who says that is bullshitting themselves and every person they say it to. We all want someone to read what we write. Well, this may exclude something like a diary. But, ultimately, anyone who wants to be a writer feels like they have something of value to contribute to the world. Or, they want to FEEL like a writer, in the successful sense of the word. They dream of a successful life as a writer, which means some sort of monetary compensation, which doesn't exist unless SOMEONE wants to read what they have to say.

So, where the hell is my story? I know my writing future lies in fiction. I've tried to write articles and I think I'm terrible. I mean, I guess I can eek one out if I have to, but because I don't find any joy in 'reporting' on something, I feel like I end up rambling and spewing pointless, uninteresting crap.

I feel like part of my problem is the current writing fad. I was in B&N the other day, wandered around a shelf and found myself in the 'Paranormal Romance' section. What the hell? How many vampire stories can there possibly be? There's one popular series that is literally a cross between Harry Potter and Twilight. A girl becomes a vampire and then goes to a sort of vampire boarding school. Jesus... I admit, I have been shamelessly sucked into the vampire thing (though I read ONLY Twilight. I didn't try any of the other copycat books), and I am a huge Harry Potter fan. I love the idea of something so unreal existing in tandem my own mundane existence, all without being revealed to the masses.

I don't know. Maybe it's a pipe dream. Maybe I'M the one bullshitting myself. If I was serious about it, I would have sat my ass down and written something already. Probably...

Day after tomorrow, Evan will be 4 weeks old. Depending on which part of the past 4 weeks I think about, it feels like it has either FLOWN by, or dragged on forever. The sleep deprivation is probably the part that feels like forever, and everything else may as well have happened in the last 5 minutes...

I was due to give birth on the 8th, but 12 days later he was still happily hanging out in there. Doc decided it was time to give him a little nudge. So, we went into the hospital on a Tuesday night and started the process of induction. To make a long story... less long... I wanted to avoid pitocin (synthetic oxytocin) because contractions are much more intense then, and studies have linked pitocin to issues with infants. So, we tried everything else possible first. This included my doctor breaking my water on Thursday morning (as in, 2 days after I had gone into the hospital).

Pitocin did indeed cause unbelievable contractions. By late Thursday night, I was in so much pain I could barely stand, but lying down was worse - and I STILL was barely 3cm dilated. I finally caved sometime in the wee hours of Friday morning and asked for the one thing I had hoped to avoid altogether - an epidural - because of the side-effects to the baby. I passed out within 2 minutes of getting the drugs, and woke up several hours later.

When I was finally ready to push on Friday afternoon, I was pretty uncomfortable. According to The Rog, I pushed for about 2 hours, but I can only recall *maybe* 4 episodes of pushing. I guess I was passing out between contractions, and I've blacked out much of it.

But. At 6:05 PM, my doctor placed Evan River on my chest, and everything else stopped. He was so alert, looking RIGHT into my eyes, and... never in my entire life have I been so overwhelmed with so much... love and warmth and happiness. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life.

I know it sounds completely cheesy, but it was truly a feeling I had heard so many moms talk about, and I found it almost annoying! But until that moment, there was no way I could have known how right they were...