Silence, silence, silence.

I have been in the most colassal road blocks of all writing road blocks. It’s unbelievable. I look at my keyboard, and all its beautiful little letters and just…can’t do it.

I’m blocked. Totally blocked. It is inconceivable because I have so many prompts and thoughts in my head but when it comes to the keyboard…

Screenshot 2015-07-18 17.23.53

…it’s just not happening.

It has been an indescribable couple of years, as evidenced by the last few posts–particularly pertaining to the ones of the deaths of friends and pets. Don’t get me wrong, I am not immune to death, of friends, or pets…it’s simply that they came quickly, unexpectedly. I wasn’t ready. But honestly, who is–right?

There is the planned and the unplanned. And both of those phenomena happened at once which made me think, at the time, I could handle all that was coming my way without any repercussions until I tried to do something creative.


Then I tried something funny, and newsy, and ironic.


Try something short, biting, sweet, sharp.

Blocked, blocked, blocked.

I took a writing class at my beloved Grub Street. Thank God I got in with a desperate subission, and sat among wonderful, caring, open writers who drew me out and helped me write my assignments for class, but anything else was completely shut down.

I have experienced writing lulls in my life. There are times I have said as much as I want to say, then need time to recharge, and rebuild in order to be a better writer. I am not the kind of person who is able to build upon a body of work that launches better, more insightful writing. I wish I was. I wish I could compartmentalize that part of myself to keep moving on and outward, I really thought I was, but this episode has made it enormously clear that I am quite attached to what’s going on in my life, and the escape of writing suffered with the drama of my existence.

There was a lot of drama in the last couple of years. The things I could bring to the surface for public examination were displayed, with a tremendous amount of support on this forum. But behind the death of a dear friend–who I miss so much, even more as time goes by, and a beloved pet; there are the machinations of recounting, reassembling, and rectifying the things that need to find a place in my head in order to assimilate my creative, carefree introspection and observation of things around me.

It has been a long, strange trip, to be certain.

My oldest son is in South Korea. He has been there since February of 2014. He is teaching middle school-aged South Korean children how to be fluent in English. I miss him every day.

My youngest son just graduated from high school. He will be going to college in another state, about 400 miles away. He was accepted into prestigous colleges in Boston, only 35 miles away but chose to go the distance. I am going to miss him more than I ever imagined.

These are just the surface realities I am managing. I am the mother of sons, and it has been my expectations that sons go out and conquer the world…except when they are MY sons. Then I want them to stay close and find a way to conquor the world and find happiness close to me. Because I am their mother. And I just can’t imagine life far away from where they are.

My husband has been the rock of my existence, even when I believed he wasn’t. He stood firmly beside me and stayed when I presumed he was underminding all I thought we stood for. I am so grateful for that, and wonder if I could have withstood that kind of purjure? It’s not worth my thought.

Therefore, here I sit, writing–just trying to write something because I don’t feel the rock in my throat when I sit at the keyboard, trying to think of something pertinent to say. I know there is a relevent message, it’s not useless. I believe I can convey a thought now that will have a reader say, “Yes, I know what that is like.”

I can’t script life. I can not begin to script my life, as much as I want to have control over what I do, think, produce, effect. My intentions are to do good, to help others, to leave behind something that will be remembered with happiness, or awe. I want those I love to know I love them. I want the things that matter to me matter for a good reason, not because they made me angry, annoyed, inconvenienced, blocked.

About EF Sweetman

writing, reading, pretty much everything noir
This entry was posted in essay, Observations, writing and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Silence, silence, silence.

  1. chlost says:

    Good to hear you again. I, too have found myself unable to write-or even to read-much. The silence is deafening here, as well. At least you pUT together an explanatory post. I am barely able to get this comment to pass through my fingertips. I remember when my son went to college thousands of miles from home. It was a very difficult adjustment to my concept of parenting. I still prefer to have all of my children sleeping under our roof. Now, of course, that includes spouses, but I can handle that. Take care.

    • EF Sweetman says:

      chlost! Please forgive me for not replying sooner, I feel your pain, we shouldn’t suffer alone, even when life takes the courses that are expected, accepted, heralded, and anticipated. I hope you are doing well, I have missed you. Will try to post more, and thank you so much for all your kind, heartfelt return. I definitely appreciate it. All the best to you.

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