I was a creative child. I was a creative teenager and a creative college student. (Really. I have proof.)
I was even a creative young mother, an avid collector of craft books who led my uncooperative boys in art projects. I painted dressers and stenciled walls and wrote prose and composed music. I pored over recipe and gardening books.
But now? Now I fear the riotous color of my life has been painted neutral, just like the walls in my house.
I am boring. Boring, I tell you. Void of ideas, empty of that flash of inspiration, just plain dry as desert sand.
I am also worried that I don’t have a creative bone left in my body. They’ve all been replaced by plastic and metal that will set off alarms at the airport.
My life is a straight line of delivering kids to school, buying groceries, doing laundry, vacuuming, working at the computer, cooking a boring dinner, cleaning up after dinner, napping and working some more.
I’m a bore.
Will I ever have a clever thought again? Will I be able to string together a necklace of words that shimmer even on an overcast day?
I either have to make peace with this dull turn of events or figure out a way to locate my missing creativity.
And I’ll do that as soon as I find the time. (In other words, in about twenty years, give or take three months.)