There was a time after my son died, almost two years, that I didn’t write. My ubiquitous blogs, the puking out of the shit that clogged my brain, ceased. The stories stopped. The manuscript of a novel stopped and was deleted. I capped the release valve of my soul.
It wasn’t that he was overly connected to my writing. I would send it to him. He would give me smart ass comments and correct any factual errors I had made about greek mythological heroes or quantum physics. Eventually he might mention something was okay. I once wrote a character who’s wife died, and he decided to remain awake because every time he fell asleep it would be one more day he was removed from her. Maybe that’s what I did. Everything I write, that he does not weigh in on, is one more step away from my son.
Lately the words have been coming in avalanches; too much to hold back. Maybe it’s the grad program I’m in and the requirement to generate words. Maybe it is just some distance from that road. Maybe it is a boy, an adolescent, a teenager, a young man, a ghost telling me it’s okay to write again. I’m too pragmatic for the latter explanation, and he would mock the shit out of me if I were to claim it.
Maybe it’s just time to write.