When I read Phoebe Potts' Good Eggs a few weeks ago, I was so moved as I turned the last page. Their story was unresolved on that last page and it resonated so strongly for me. I realized that Potts' creation speaks so much to what I do here on this blog.
I've said this before: what I can't create in biology, I create in words instead.
Writing and creating seek to fill this void, this very visceral, physical void within my womb. What initially served as emotional outpouring has now turned inward toward fulfillment. Before I was writing to dump all the horrendous emotional clutter elbow-shoving my brain for control of my mind.
Now my writing has become uniquely self-serving even though the focus of my blog has become more as an outward resource for others. It's very strange to watch the ways in which my blog as Container has morphed and my writing as Content has changed in purpose. It's like this weird hybrid blob stretching and swelling, pulsating between motivations.
I ache to be pregnant. I ache to fulfill my procreative instinct. I gasp for a breath of relief and assurance that everything is going to work out in the end and I'm left choking in an oxygen-devoid room empty of comfort.
So I write. And I invest my time and brainspace into designing my new blog at WordPress (move is happening on August 1st folks). I tweak and I perfect and I revise and I sculpt the visual and written because it's the only measure of control I have right now.
I feel so horribly inadequate as a biological female - not as Woman - there's a distinct difference there. I'm a Strong Woman, a Good Woman, but I've got some broken parts.
So in my inability to create life, I've realized that my blog has become a way of creating a written legacy for myself.
Remember - Darwin said my genes didn't make the cut.
So these words will have to carry on past my dust and ashes.
And so I churn out words and designs and tweets and Facebook messages, this endless stream of creation from my Mind when I cannot create from my Womb.
The words ticking away the minutes, the seconds, in every moment of waiting and hoping.