It's been awhile since I've sat down and started to type. As always life gets in the way, and something always takes precedence over words. Whether it be the kids, the chef, the restaurants (that I am now director of), or just the humdrum of everyday life, writing always gets cast to the side for me. As I get older and things get more complicated, I know I need an outlet. My soul yearns for it. I think about this edit post box daily and at night after I've laid the kids down to sleep, the light of my computer screen calls out to me "Sit down Amelia, type. It will make you feel better, I promise." But I don't listen. I check my emails, I balance my checkbook, I scroll facebook and get frustrated, I do the dishes, or I put laundry away. I do absolutely anything and everything to avoid doing what I love because I know if I do I will realize I am not doing what I love to be doing on the regular. And that will make me sad. It will make me question my life and what I am doing with it. It will make me open the doors that I am not yet ready to open. 

But, here's the thing. No matter how I try to run from it, it's still there. My longing to write is there. You can feel it on some of my instagram or facebook posts. I can feel it there sometimes. My love of storytelling even comes through on my Instagram story occasionally. It's still there, I just don't use it as much. And I am not sure if I will again. I know that I won't be writing daily blog posts about my kids anymore. They are to old for me to tell their stories for them. Sure I share their pics and life moments socially, but they always approve, and if they don't it doesn't go up. I am not sure if I will write about the restaurants or the chef anymore. Writing about it used to be my sanity when I was home alone at night with two small babies and the Chef was working til 1am. But that's no longer the case. We both work days together and usually for the most part spend our evenings with one another. He does travel more now but that's when I find my alone time. The kids go down and I read a book until my eyes get heavy and I drift off into another universe until the sun shines through my window panes. My material for writing has somewhat disappeared. 

And that's been my hesitation.

What do I write about? 

There is so much I want to do, so much I want to write about. But it's all over the place. Somedays I want to share this crazy smoothie I made with strawberries and colloidal silver. Somedays I want to talk about how fucked up America is right now. Somedays I want to talk about how I want to sell it all and run away to an island, open a smoked fish shop, surf all day, and raise my kids on Shakespeare and Vonnegut. Anyone want to buy a restaurant group?

I guess there is no rhyme or reason to this life so why should there be rhyme or reason to my writing. I'll guess I will just write. Let's so how that turns out, shall we?