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I’ve never felt this much like quitting. Like, if I stopped writing, it would be a relief. To me. To those around me. If I stopped writing, then I could also stop thinking about it. Stop talking about it. I could talk about boys and weddings and babies and housekeeping and fitness, instead. I could talk about books – real books – that other people like, instead of . . . whatever it is I’ve got collecting dust in my desk drawers.

Writing has been this thing I was meant for – this thing I was supposed to do – for so long. I kept at “being a writer” while I was in high school, then college, then when I graduated. I kept at it while dating, while engaged, when married, when job-searching and then job-juggling.

I don’t know how to keep at it while being a mom. I keep trying to figure it out, only to return to the same question (why bother at all?), even on the rare days where I manage to get some words onto the page.

I did it, I say to myself, smiling. And then the smile fades because so what? What for? It’s not like anyone cares.

And it’s not like anyone should care. There’s so much to care about, in this world, and now a louder and louder part of me wonders who I’m kidding, hunching over these notebooks, imagining silly adventures that don’t matter to anyone but me. What if they shouldn’t matter to me, either? What if . . . I’m not supposed to be writing? What if I’m supposed to focus on something else? On being someone else?

I know you’re not supposed to quit, just because the job’s gotten harder. Sometimes, when the going gets rough, that means it’s more important than ever to press on. I guess, I just wanted to say the going’s rough. It’s been rough for a while. And I get downhearted, thinking about how much longer the roughness may continue.

But also wanted to say that I don’t mean to quit. Not quite yet.