A change has gotten over me these past few years. I am no longer quite myself. I am no longer the prolific writer that I used to be. Nowadays, I hardly write.
Except for the self-imposed weekend breaks, I used to produce one article every day. But it's getting harder and harder to try to explain to my editors why I can't meet my deadline.
I think of the mountain of laundry waiting for me, a First Holy Communion banner that is due in a few days, and the Easter Egg hunt that needs to be organised. These reasons sound lame.
I was the writer that editors can always rely on to deliver. I hardly ever turn down an assignment. Doing so makes me feel like I am missing out on something.
But these days, I find myself turning down assignments more often. And it's okay.
There is a sense of liberation, knowing that in the morning, when I wake up, I don't have a deadline to worry about. There is now more time to play.
There is also another reason, and it's simple. The fact is, I can no longer write. I was never the one to ever run out of ideas or stories to pitch.
But lately my ideas have been uninspired. The muse, who once was my constant loyal companion, has abandoned me.
Perhaps it is jealous of the time I spend with my children. Maybe she loathes the fact that I find more pleasure in capturing magical moments with my boys over the joy of finding a line to start another journey on paper with.
I rejoice over the fact that I've finally found - after days of digging in boxes of toys - the long-lost giraffe from a wooden puzzle. A blank page, what used to be a promise of possibilities, is now just that - an empty page.
I am now more excited by the fact that the baby is now wearing his big brother's first pair of shoes. These now are the things that make my soul sing. The jumble of words in my head effortlessly finding each other to make music and meaning has lost its tune.
My life has become mundane.
I used to explore different worlds every day, worlds that not everyone has the means or the courage to explore - in food trucks or holes-in-the-wall to find the perfect tacos al carbon, 120 feet under the sea to commune with clown fishes, or in the Red Planet to look for evidence of life.
My stories - fact or fiction - bring me everywhere, and it is always something different that makes the blood rush.
Purchase this article for republication.