Writing is Like Pumping.

Yea, you read that title right. Writing is like pumping. Perhaps you’re raising an eyebrow and thinking, “What you mean pumping?!” I mean like pumping your breastmilk.

I have felt horrible for the neglect of my firstborn, this blog, but it feels like it has made it to the age where it can stand to go longer periods of time without much attention. The novel however is not, and frankly I feel like I got more sleep with my actual human newborns than I have with this novel.

Instead of having my tatas hooked up to an uncomfortable sucking contraption that lets out the rhythmic shush, shush, shush, my fingers are attached to the keyboard causing an irregular tapping.

Like pumping, I cannot get a good flow established if I’m uncomfortable or distracted, so oftentimes I’m forced into solitude where I sit tense and flustered and instead of cursing my right tata for being sucky (don’t lie, we all have one sucky boob that doesn’t produce as much milk.) I curse my right lobe for not producing enough emotional descriptions.

So I try all the tricks that supposedly help boost my supply. Instead of fenugreek tablets, water, and pumping, I ingest literature, I increase my meditation time, and I write. But just as it is when you first sit down to pump, the machine shush, shush, shush, shushing as fast as it can and NOTHING comes out, not even a drop, so it does as I sit at my keyboard and stare blankly at the screen. Nothing. Not even a tiddle.

And so I sit…aaaand cry. And try to think of my baby and how badly I want to feed it, to help it grow. To hold her up and show off her size and proudly say, “Yep. I did it. Sleepless nights and dry spells but we made it through and look at ‘er, ain’t she a picture of health?!”

But when it comes, and you best believe it’s gonna come right when you least expect it, like in the shower and there’s nothing to catch it, I sing Hallelujahs and ask forgiveness for being overly dramatic and accusing God of forsaking me. I do a happy dance and marvel at what I was able to produce.

Then I praise God for allowing me to produce it and ask Him to never let me run dry.



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